The Unspeakable
by Stjernefald
Summary: Time's running short for Harry Potter. Navigating through unseen enemies and shrouded intentions, he must stay above his frazzled sanity and oppose Voldemort's clandestine machinations. But worn with the blazing regrets of his past - of memories burning eternally - Harry desperately seeks control of himself. Peace was outlawed long ago.
1. The Snow of Purgatory: Prologue One

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Short and sweet, eh? Not sure what's the point of these, but no matter.

New story! Lots planned and cool twists and turns ahead. Hopefully in a coherent narrative that will excite. Well, fair warning, there will be themes of extreme violence, offensive language, murder and general debauchery. Characters will not be all-around how you might have seen them in the books, but I try to keep them as close to their Canon-self whilst telling the story I want to tell.

AU, Year 5 Divergence – Ten years after the loss of his innocence, when the menace of Lord Voldemort arises once again, Harry Potter must conquer his unhinged mind and challenge the Dark Lord. It is the power of the mind to be unconquerable.

* * *

 **Chapter One of The Unspeakable**

 **The Snow of Purgatory: Prologue Part One**

Nightfall had descended upon the wastelands of the Northern Mountains half an hour ago. The sky had cleared up with the rise of the crescent-moon, twinkling with bright stars and a distant flicker of hues – crimson red, forest green and vibrant purple – which blazed from the Northern Mountains.

 _Northern Lights_. The man knew them well by now.

The lone man, cloaked in dark robes, strode upon a narrow path. Swiftly and silently, the man conquered the slopes of snow last night's unforgiving weather had brought about, an intensity in his stride that was only born out of fear and desperation.

This man was Ian Shortwand.

The path led the man, Ian, who was beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic as the path narrowed further, into a tunnel going across the crux of a mountain. The passageway would pave the way through the mountain for him and, Ian knew, lead smoothly onto a valley of unquenchable wilderness and frost. This the man knew, for he had treaded these sacred halls of misshapen rocks and distorted magic before.

Flares of radiance hung suspended from the rocky-roof of the passageway, harvested from the Northern Lights – green, then red, then purple, chasing each other in a silent, never-ceasing dance of shadows and lights. It didn't illuminate the passageway as much as throwing the shadows into a glaring lucidity of _aliveness_. Like monsters crawled within the void.

No. The dread was all too apparent on his face. He wasn't supposed to think like that.

As he finally cleared out of the passage, the wizard, for he was indeed a wizard, gave an involuntary shudder of fear and breathed a quick sigh of relief. No matter how illusory his fear might be, he would never like the feeling of walking beneath a mountain. It was like walking beneath the weight of a sleeping god, which he knew quite a lot about, he supposed.

He shuddered in a final bout of irrational fear leaving the body, and cast his eyes about the clearing he had just entered.

Ice hung like spears from corridor-thick branches. Trees, as large as buildings, scattered out over the field of snow. It had seemed like a place out of touch with the rest of the world, when they first came here. Beyond the touch of humanity, of wizardry – only the measured passage of time stirred within this place. How his boss, his Lord, had even found this unseen passage was beyond him. No magic, that the man was aware of, could uncover this magical passage through the mountains. Above him, the branches created a roof of leafs, green and opaque, allowing no light to enter.

So why did he see so clearly? Ian stared around this lost world beyond worlds.

Ian moved on, choosing not to dwell upon that which he did not understand. Walking the familiar path between thick and dense trees – careful not to stumble on any protruding roots on the ground – he found little creatures of light following him, like fireflies, yellow and red, dancing like flames that won't burn. Ian had never dared walking into the Forbidden Forest when he attended Hogwarts, but something made him think that this might be a lot like it. Magical and at the same time inexplicably perilous.

At last, he came to the end of the passageway, the end of the vast, unfound clearing. Two rocky pillars, slightly bent, skewered into each other and created a symbol of vague resemblance to the letter 'V' put upside down. Within the two pillars of black, misshapen rocks, a waterfall was _rising_. The water surged upwards, offering no consideration to such fickle matters as gravity and other laws of nature.

Closing his eyes and steeling himself, and noting with no small amount of dread how the small creatures of light shied away from the water, he found his feet taking him into the water. Where he should have found himself amidst a rush of water, he found only a cooling sensation of rushing wind – and when he opened his eyes, he was back in the normal world again, back in a world of muggles and wizards.

A most breath-taking view met his eyes. Rows of mountains stretched out as far as Ian could see, black sky and white stars… and the lights of the Northern Mountains cast a glow of multi-coloured sparks across the sky like streaks of ancient magic.

A village of wizards laid nestled in-between mountains. Golden lights of magic and ancient times hung suspended in mid-air above the city. The walk he would have to overcome would be short and painless, he knew. The danger was behind him at last.

Ian Shortwand, his mouth suddenly edgy now that his price was in sight, descended the hill with a surety in his footsteps that wasn't there a moment ago. But before he got too far away, he stopped and cast his eyes back at where he should have ascended from, through waters of magic, but found nothing but a steep, treacherous mountainside of coarse rock and cold snow.

It was like the water had merely spat him out on the other side of the world.

* * *

Ian crept into the village like a silent guest, strolling on the main street of the town. He walked past a humid-looking bar, a favourite of the locals, much like the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Staring, motionless, for but a moment longer, Ian moved on swiftly from there, knowing he was no local and he wasn't welcome – not in the way where his presence would go unseen, at least. And that was what he craved tonight. Anonymity.

So, he moved onwards. Moving past the bar with the humble and benign air about it, he gazed down at a now, after four weeks of visits, familiar street of snow and activity. From certain angles, it even looked a little like Hogsmeade did this time of year – the time of Christmas.

What was he doing here again? In a foreign country during Christmas! Not that he had any family to speak of, but you didn't need family to celebrate Christmas, did you?

Did you?

Perhaps you did. He certainly hadn't been celebrating Christmas since he left Hogwarts behind. Hogwarts and her Christmas Feast…

Ian sighed. His Lord would be very cross if he knew of the things Ian longed for at night, when it was only he and his heart of hearts that cared to listen. Although, knowing Ian's Lord, he might just know what was going on in his head. It wouldn't surprise Ian.

Ian slipped inside a sordid bar and, with an ease only gained through multiple visits, found a quiet corner where he could keep to himself, away from the other patrons. Nobody moved to greet him and nobody moved to stop him. Nobody acknowledged him. Perfect.

They were a scant bunch, he noticed, although the air was more abuzz with the sound of soft chatter and hearsay than he was used to. At the front of the bar, there was a group of people, wizards and witches in brightly-coloured robes, chatting away with a foreign tongue Ian couldn't place.

"Så du ham der!" one of them said, a rather rounded man with sharp eyes and a boisterous laugh. "Han var helt ude og skide, var han ikke?"

Ian didn't understand a word of their conversation and didn't care to know. He cast his eyes further about, searching the table with idle interest whilst he waited for the barman, Sir Frank.

Sir Frank was an old man who had inherited the bar from his father, who had in turn inherited it from his father, and so forth, and so forth.

Rumours had it, though, that Sir Frank didn't have any children. Another lineage would have to seize the ownership of the bar when he died. Ian spent a fleeting moment envisioning himself as the owner. It was a happy thought, and thus, had nothing to do with his current life.

Not that he ought to be complaining – he chose to be here, after all. His Lord hadn't coerced him into servitude.

Not this time, at least.

Sir Frank at last came to his table and asked for his beverage. He was a thin man of small height. His hair was grey and balding, his face wrinkled and knobby, touched by the merciless teeth of old-age, and eyes distant and _misty_. Blind.

Ian smiled. He liked the man and his kind, unseeing eyes. They reminded him, for some reason, of Dumbledore from Hogwarts. Not that he would ever dare to mention that aloud.

"The usual, sir," Ian said, smiling broadly.

The barkeep nodded, smiled fixedly yet politely, and moved on with a slight limp, probably born out of old age. Ian got the feeling Sir Frank didn't really like him very much; it looked like-

Ian paused and stared. Now, how odd! Ian blinked, checking if his eyes weren't playing him for a fool. They weren't. Ian shifted in his seat to reach for his wand.

Sitting, eerily like a mirror, before him, a couple of tables away from his quiet corner, was a man dressed entirely in black. He had his hood drawn over his face, and it looked like there was a charm covering it from the prying eyes of the bar, for when Ian tried to look he found a void of blackness.

Beholding the room at large and noting that he wasn't the only one looking at the stranger in black, Ian contemplated the dark figure with analytical eyes. There wasn't anything extraordinary about his built. He was of medium height, just below six feet, Ian would guess, and had a rather thin form. But what really drew Ian's attention was the way the man held himself. His posture was rigid yet outwardly relaxed, his fingers twirled a long, wand of dark wood – calm yet prepared to slinging spells, if threatened. He had seen the body of a killer comfortable in his abilities to hurt others in his Lord, and this man was no different. Of that Ian was dreadfully sure.

Murmurs had descended over the bar, although Ian thought he'd just failed to pick up on it when he entered.

The man raised his glass of Firewhisky – if Ian was correct – and knocked it back in one gulp, then he rose to his feet, threw some coins on the table, and, with a last, sharp look round the room, strode out of the room, cloak bellowing after him.

He had the feeling the wizard had judged him. But how did he have that feeling, when all he could see was blackness in his face? Ian shuddered, but for a moment… for a moment he thought he had stared into the void of the Dark Lord's heart. Unkind and unforgiving.

The murmurs of the room ascended into whispers. Ian leaned back, motionless, staring vacantly at nothing in particular. Indecisions, like before all monumental choices of life, flittered through him, pushing him onto a lane of despair. Had he been lucid, he would have found it funny how eerily similar the bar was to the Three Broomstick, once the gossip got flowing and the meat got _burnin'_. But as it was, he was taken aback by the oppressive presence that had just left their midst.

There was powerful magic within the dark figure. Tight-lipped control, too – and an air of danger.

Ian knew fear once again.

Fuck it! He had to do something! Right?

The man had stared right into his eyes, and held them, almost with the hint of a challenge. Like he knew! A lance of fear etched onto his soul as he contemplated the sheer intent behind those unseen eyes. How had the man been able to communicate intent without actually revealing his eyes? Magic beyond Ian was at play here.

Merlin, there had been _intent_ in those eyes, though.

"Se! Se! Han går mod bjerget," one of the foreign travellers said, standing by and gazing out the window looking out at the street. "Han må være sindssyg!"

Again, Ian didn't understand a word, but there was awe in the man's voice, and Ian found himself moving towards the man before he could think about it.

At the far end of the street – had he really been sitting so long and staring out into space? – the dark figure conquered the snow and ascended the slope on which the real path, the _known_ path, to the Northern Mountains commenced.

Ian had a bad feeling. A terrible feeling. _No… He cannot know… can he?_

A quiet voice in the back of his mind, sounding like the hiss of his Lord, told him that he was better to err on the side of caution. Ian, filled with doubt, knew what he needed to do – what he _must_ do.

He had to kill the stranger. He had to kill the man in black, for if he were on to them; there would be no escape from the wrath of his Lord, the sleeping god.

* * *

With a sigh, Ian admitted to himself that he knew not where he was going. He had been following the man in black as close as he dared, although he, too, seemed to have gotten lost, as Ian was sure that they had walked on this path before. The grounds were dark and peaceful. The rustling wind was a comforting presence, and with a few heating charms he didn't even feel the cold air.

Really, the fabled treacherousness of the Northern Mountains seemed highly exaggerated. Maybe it was just another one of those tales spun to scare children. Like the Chamber of Secrets and Deathly Hallows and such nonsense.

The land had become barren as they ascended the mountainside. Trees became scant, slopes of snow laid around in piles. Here and there, the man in black would disappear around one corner of a stone, or ascend over a slope of snow and wane from Ian's line of sight. And sometimes, when the inner-clock of alarm ticked off louder and faster than the snow breezed by, Ian would get the nervous feeling that he had lost his tail; with a hurried footstep, he'd ascend all the quicker at those times.

Though in the end, it seemed, he would always, somehow, end right up behind the man in black again.

The man in black walked ever on, towards the core of the Northern Mountains – towards where he might stumble upon their business. Ian couldn't have that. Of course, they were more out there – around twenty-five or thirty of them. But if he saw them! If he saw them and got away… His Lord would… do terrible things to them…

Ian didn't know for how long he had been following his victim-to-be. How far had he trudged and groaned through the icy forests and slopes, dragging his feet through the snow? Looking for the perfect moment to strike? Something held him back.

His Lord had warned them to stray off course, for time and space got weird up here… _distorted_ , sometimes motionless, other times ablaze with senseless hurriedness.

He wondered about time, in such a cold, dreary place as this. Maybe it was more the perceptiveness of man that beheld time in such a twist, maybe it was an illusion of change created by a dwindling sense of humanity – a desperate cry for time to take away our minds from the nothingness of the Mountains; but did that really matter anyway?

What was the most real but the perceptiveness of the minds of men? Only the minds of men brought meaning to illusory concepts such as time and space. Reality.

Ian sighed. His mind wandered often in times where it really should not. It had been the same thing when he had taken his O.W.L's, although it _was_ History. To be fair, everybody hated that class. Everybody daydreamed during History, right?

Ian blinked and tensed, his eyes widening as his gaze quickly darted around the path ahead. The man in black was missing. Again. Curse it! But he had been caught distracted again.

Suddenly, in the otherwise quiet and beautiful night, there was a rustling of snow, the disturbance of air, and a sensation of rising tranquillity in his abdomen. His body fell, limps motionless and powerless, to the snowy grounds. He didn't feel his descend and he didn't feel his landing, all nerves had been blocked, blissful, in a patch of serenity.

The snow around him turned red, and Ian realized – with a detach sense of delight – that it was his blood, that he was dying, and… that it was okay, that it was meant to be. The fear – which he knew to be there deep within him – had been blocked, a slithering corporeal idea of being someone else siphoned into his head.

Suddenly, the man in black stepped into his line of vision, robes billowing ceremoniously in the wind. His dread exploded from the deepest recesses of his mind, raving and all-consuming, and the pain flared to life with a spark of acrid agony.

The last thing he beheld before darkness claimed him, before his eyes went blind with death, was the icy stare of emerald green eyes from within the faceless void, as the person above him, _Harry Potter_ , tore his mind asunder for information he did not have.

Ian Shortwand, a Death Eater of Lord Voldemort, died alone in the snow. For a cause he barely comprehended the meaning of.

* * *

The cold drove him to the edge of madness. In the midst of all this damn snow and slippery, treacherous slopes that adorned this wretched foreign country, Harry was swiftly getting fed up with the task he had been given by his superior.

Vast and unforgiving winds tore into his cloth- and spells of concealment-covered face, sending lances of sharp and agonizing pain through the delicate web of skin on his face. Like little needles prickling him all over unceasingly.

Harry sighed. He fucking hated the cold climate of Norway. Why couldn't he be sent somewhere warm – like Brazil or something?

A heating charm spilled from the tip of his wand with a mere thought, and surging heat expelled some of the unpleasant coldness, making him feel a pale semblance of normal again.

It had been a couple of days since he had killed the unfortunate Death Eater, a couple of days spent dragging himself through snowy wastelands and perilous slopes of unsteady snow. Yesterday he almost set in motion an avalanche trying to cross a particularly trickery mountainside, and Harry had vowed to be more careful.

Progress had been slow and tedious all day. Slow progress, Harry reasoned, meant staying alive, which meant actually getting anywhere at all. Patience was a virtue, and all that shit.

In the distance, whenever the wind seemed to let down long enough to let him glimpse on the road ahead, he could make out the mountains rise through the thick curtain of falling snow. If the Auror Department was right, which would have been wholly unintentionally on their part, then Death Eaters would be prowling the mountainsides at night, looking for something.

Harry had a good idea what they were looking for. Or rather Nathan Goodwill – and thus Harry – had a good idea.

Dragons.

Harry, for obvious reasons, didn't like the idea of Voldemort gaining the alliance of dragons – even though Harry could not fathom _how_. Dragons, at best, were volatile creatures who would leave you alone if you let them in peace. At worst…

At worst they ate you.

The possibilities were endless, really. Chaos and reason entangled in a disarray of defiance and greed for absolute power.

Or whatever the fuck Voldemort really wanted.

A screaming swirl of branches being broken echoed across the wastelands of snow.

A blinding flash of light aced across the darkening evening sky.

Harry, numbed, barely coherent of the world around him, had his wand outstretched and humming with the power of the spell that rested on the edge of his brain.

The light cleared and…

Nothing.

A deer ventured across the barren, steep hill, giving Harry a wide berth – and another flash of green wisps of light forked across the sky.

"Northern Lights and a fuckin' deer?" Harry scoffed, laughing derisorily, maddeningly. How long had it really been? A couple of days, and he was already seeing all the monsters in the void.

 _Motherfucker – shit_ …

When Harry had agreed to the mission, he had hardly thought it would involve freezing his damn arse to death. Ha! The Daily Prophet would have a field day if the world would see him now. The great Harry Potter, freezing his fucking ass off on the outskirts of an all-wizarding village in Norway called _Trollman Plass_.

Hardly the death worthy of the Boy Who Lived, was it?

Harry sighed. No use complaining about it. That wasn't how you were supposed to do it. And he had chosen this for himself, after all.

He treaded onwards, flicking his wand and pushing away the large pile of snow in his way with a throb of invisible magical power; it cleared away, and Harry continued, unchallenged. Hopefully, he would be there by nightfall, where he would give his status rapport.

Hours passed by with a detached sense of melancholy. Harry finally understood why Goodwill had been so adamant in his worries. Out here, you were all alone. Alone with only your traitorous thoughts, alone with only a sense of a survival instinct… a memory of being a person beyond this place.

Each step, however, only revealed another hindrance to be conquered, another moment of suffering to be endured in stoic, bleak fortitude.

Wretchedness was all his eyes could see. It was all his was meant to see. A test of character.

Harry cursed the total lack of significant intelligence. Had they only known the exact location he could have apparated directly there and been free of this fuckin' path of misery. But they only had a vague location, and Harry would, in worst case, have to circle all the Mountains to find the Death Eaters.

Not that he thought so. They would be on the Main Mountain.

"Fuck this!" Harry tapped his wand against his side, sparks of dark colours flittered round the tip. He didn't have unlimited months worth of time on his hand…

Nathan Goodwill possessed formidable knowledge on the obscure or seemingly inconsequential. He knew not the exact location of where to find the dragons, but only that they resided somewhere upon these slopes – due north.

He had told him always to head north. North upon the Northern Mountains beneath the light of the Northern Lights – like a fucking fairy-tale or something.

It, of course, all depended upon the Death Eaters actually being there, which they might be or might not be. He kind of doubted that they were. To bind these creatures were to challenge the fetid clutches of death. Something Voldemort always endeavoured to avoid.

Oh well. Maybe Voldemort had finally after ten years of anonymity become impatient. But Harry doubted that, too. Voldemort was nothing if not deliberate, cautious and above all patient. He had all the time in the world to be patient, Harry supposed, being an immortal bastard and all that.

Hopefully that would change.

Half an hour later the wind died down and the snow became less unforgiving. Harry reached into his dark coat, drawing out a small, undistinguished stick, then tapped it with his wand and with a mind full of intent. A broom, his treasured gift from the deceased Sirius Black, the _Firebolt_ , swelled in his hand, and Harry quickly mounted the broom and took off.

It was cold and wholly unpleasant, but he covered more ground this way. Soon, he found the mountain that looked right by the description Goodwill had offered him. Vast slabs of snow covered the foothills, smooth and steep it rose off the ground and into the heavens, and soon the slopes grew naked – the bedrock promising a swift fall to your immediate demise, should you dare to tread their treacherous paths. The nature upon the mountain looked dead and withered, not allowed to live by the never-ceasing cold.

Upon the mountaintop, however, where the laws of nature dictates that it should be the coldest, nature flourished in a cascade of warm colours. Golden trees of bright purple colours, flowers of ocean blue, and exotic plants of bright green sprung to Harry's eye, and a multiple arrays of other colours blurred around, too far away for Harry to truly see what they were.

Once or twice Harry thought he saw a belch of flames streak out over the mountainside, but it was gone so quickly Harry thought he must have imagined it.

As a violet curtain of dusk slowly began to cloak everything from his vision, and the moon ascended the sky in a bout for dominance, Harry decided to touch back upon the ground and make camp for the night. He had a rapport to deliver, and tomorrow a new day awaited him, to be endured.

He had an idea of where he was supposed to go.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore considered himself a man of patience. When all else failed, when panic and dread took over the hearts of men, it was important that one always kept his head clear of unnecessary fears and focus on the task at hand – no matter the hardship or how painful the choices needed might be.

Patience, however, was proving a touch hard on this night.

Harry Potter had gone missing last night.

Now, that was not unusual, one might say, seeing as Harry Potter – to the eyes of the world, at least – had been missing for the better part of the last ten years. But where the world had been left unaware of Harry's true whereabouts, Albus knew. Where the world was left to speculate and dwell upon the ominous mysteries of the past, Albus Dumbledore had stayed above and could plan ahead.

Some called him omniscient; Albus knew it was only a matter of being prepared. Nothing more.

He definitely lacked his usual overview tonight.

Harry hadn't told him he would be leaving, which was highly unusual. Even after their _spat_ a few years ago, Harry always came to him whenever he was about to do something.

Not this time.

Albus would never reveal it to a soul, but he was smote with a tang of worry deep in his wary, old bones. Oh, this war of deceit and shadows truly put a strain on the olden days of life, didn't it? Sometimes, all Albus wanted was to hand over the responsibility of the Order of the Phoenix – the last resistance to Voldemort – to Harry and be done with it all.

But Harry wasn't the kind of leader needed in a war. Albus knew this intimately. He was, as Albus had known since Harry grew out of his adolescent years, the better man of the two.

And morally better men didn't win wars.

Albus sighed. He took off his glasses and drew a hand over his face, then weaved it down through his beard in a calming mannerism. Hopefully, Nathan Goodwill had some light to shed on Harry's current predicament. Harry's… at times rather reckless nature could lead him astray from time to time, and Albus would quite like to know if his assistance would be needed.

Hopefully… Hope… the remedy for the masses, the bane for the few that was cursed with the knowledge of how fickle such a thing as hope really was.

Albus considered him cursed at the best of times. Every choice he made, it seemed, presented a hollow victory at best, a double-edged sword that would leave shards of bones broken and protruding from your skin and the acrid stench of death marring your tongue.

There was no such thing as a happy ending.

Cynicism. Cursing the foul and youthful mouth of reason, Albus knew that Harry Potter – and his pessimistic way of life – had rubbed off on him.

He didn't always possess a mind of such… _bleakness_ , did he?

The flames in Albus' fireplace blazed suddenly with a hue of green, and Albus quickly banished his thoughts into the dark murmurs of his mind. He put on his glasses and peered at the face of Minerva McGonagall with utmost of interest, like he had been expecting her all along.

"Sir. A David Bingham is here to see you."

Albus could see the look of uncertain interest flitter through her eyes, but didn't answer the unspoken question.

If Minerva was perturbed by the lack of response, she didn't show it and continued dispassionately, "Should I let him get through?"

"Ah, yes – please do so," Albus murmured. David Bingham was in fact the alias Unspeakable Nathan Goodwill used whenever he had to go through more… public channels.

The fire blazed considerably, and a figure dressed in impeccable, dark robes stepped out of the fire with a grace few were capable of.

"Ah Nathan," Albus greeted pleasantly, noting with scrutinizing eyes that the man looked a touch out of sorts and a deep-seated wariness had touched upon his eyes. Albus, not showing any of his own strain of heart, rose and shook the hand of his old friend. "How good of you to come by."

"Albus," Nathan greeted curtly, though not unpleasantly, with a nod, then looked him over, worry dancing at the edges of his eyes. "You look tired… a touch pale… Hogwarts treating you right?"

Ah, so perhaps he'd not managed to entirely mask his fear and doubts. Nathan, Albus often thought, was the only one able to read just a little on his often carefully worn mask of cheer and elderly friendliness. It both pleased him and scared him. Most often, unfortunately, it was the latter.

A show of emotion, most often, was a sign of weakness – and wasn't that the essence of a pessimist's way of life?

"Nothing to worry about, Nathan," Albus said amicably. He sat down and conjured a soft plush chair in a vibrant scarlet colour for his guest. Delighted and empowered slightly by the casualness in which he could perform his feats of magic, he marvelled his old wand in his hand. Mere flicks and thoughts… Albus shook his head, getting back on track.

"Merely the worries of an old man, my friend," he continued at last. "Though I daresay some of my worries are justly placed on this matter."

" _Harry_ …" Nathan uttered softly, the edges of the sound of the name raw with dread. The younger man looked up and met the Headmaster's eyes, then looked away from Albus' piercing blue eyes. Was that guilt Albus detected in the younger man's eyes? No, surely not…

"Harry…" Albus agreed with a nod. "I don't mean to intrude upon your businesses, but I must know… is Harry safe?"

He knew his question presented a glaringly obvious fallacy. Harry wasn't safe, would never be for years to come, Albus feared. Harry was a child born into war, for war, with the purpose to end a war deeply imbedded in the very fabric of magic – fabrics that Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter had challenged and defied since one fateful night many, many years ago.

Harry had always been a child of war.

He knew, of course, that Harry was still alive. His entire desk was littered with artefacts meant to keep check on almost everything concerning Harry – from his life to his sanity to his remarkable magical abilities.

One, coming to understand just what most of the small artefacts on Albus' desk was, would call him obsessed with the boy.

They would be right, of course. Albus had his reasons.

"That I know of… yes," Nathan answered at last, pinching himself between his nose and his upper-lip. It was a nervous gesture, Albus knew, that even the considerable training of the Department of Mysteries hadn't been able to kill. "He has a rapport due in a couple of minutes – wait, you… you don't know…" The note of sheer bafflement in Nathan's voice humoured Albus greatly, despite the very serious circumstances. "You mean to tell me he didn't tell you?"

"I'm afraid not. Must have slipped his mind," Albus murmured, steepling his wrinkled fingers and leaning back in his chair. He contemplated Nathan over his half-moon glasses, both the man and his words. "Where is he, Nathan? Why do you eyes betray such a vast amount of guilt?"

"He said he would tell you…"

For a moment it looked like Nathan would refrain from answering, but then he sighed dejectedly. "Why didn't he tell you?" he muttered to himself, vexed and full of raving rage. Albus heard and his eyes twinkled with a small spark of amusement. "He's in Norway, on an assignment I asked him to undertake."

"I see." Albus' blue eyes turned serious as he contemplated Norway and the rumours flittering throughout the Ministry. Then he sighed and felt his wary bones give way to age. "Ah, yes – _I see_. You no doubt acted upon the sightings of men wearing dark robes that the Auror Department heard rumours about last week. May I ask where, exactly, in Norway?"

Nathan, always a calm man, almost bristled with shock in the face of Albus' seemingly never-ceasing, immeasurable knowledge. "How do you even know that? The Auror Department dismissed the notions of men in dark robes as hearsay – it was only because of my liaisons in the Auror Department that I was able to act upon it."

"That," Albus said, "and the fact that you have faced the truth about the second ascension of Lord Voldemort." Nathan gave an involuntary shudder at the name, but otherwise had no reaction to the most dreaded name in the Wizarding World; Albus continued. "You were brave enough to make the connection between men in dark robes and Death Eaters. I applaud you for that. What I don't applaud you for, however, is giving the task directly to Harry Potter. Knowing with the utmost of certainty that he wouldn't be able to _not_ act on it."

"He has grown, Dumbledore," Nathan said softly, yet his voice carried a conviction few had when opposing Albus. "In the last year, he has grown so far beyond me that I struggle to find things to teach him – well, things he shows an interest in, at least. You yourself proclaimed to have found yourself in a situation not dissimilar to my own, right? He has grown to…" Nathan pinched the space between mouth and nose again, thinking, then he nodded to himself. "He has grown to rival even _you_ , Dumbledore."

The proudness of a teacher, Albus appreciated, was not something to be taken lightly in its capability to distort; it encouraged ones capacity for delusions.

Nathan's voice, though it carried the hard edge of believe, was shaded with a small measure of disbelieve. Like what he had just said was hard to even comprehend.

He'd probably never thought he would even utter those words.

Albus shrugged, not agreeing or disagreeing. "I don't doubt that should Harry and I ever cross wands – which I doubt we ever will – well, I might just lose." Albus doubted it, though. All false modesty aside, he still believed he carried the edge over Harry – acceptance of mind and one-self was still not within Harry capacity. But no doubt Harry had closed the gap considerably in the last ten years since he left Hogwarts at then end of his fifth year. And there was no doubt that he was far beyond what Albus – and Gellert, for that matter – were at the same time, at twenty-five. "But that does not make Harry impenetrable to deceit. And Harry still lacks the foresight of experience, which – as you know, Nathan – has saved the life of a wizard more often than any skill or power ever have."

"And how do you suppose he would ever gain that experience if he's never to go out into the real world and face real enemies?"

"From what I've heard…" Albus began, but paused, unsure if he should pursue this path. Oh well. "From what I've heard, he has already become, ah, quite _active_."

Nathan closed-up like the snap of a book, tight-lipped and cool. "That's meagre rumours, Dumbledore." If Albus was supposed to back down in the face of the note of warning in Nathan's voice, then, Albus thought with humour, it wasn't very efficient. "Nothing ties Harry to those killings – and whoever did it, did the world a favour."

"Ah – let's just hope, then, that there won't be anything to tie to him in the future."

"He needs this. This was what you wanted. To take the kid-gloves off. You knew what we sought to accomplish."

"The thing about power, Nathan, is that the more of it you have… the more strength of character you need to not let it twist you. What we sought out to do was not to grant Harry strength, for he already had that, but a change in his character. Unearned power leads only to ruination – there can be no shortcuts on the path to power, lest he shall be lead astray. The path will always be proportionally important to the power gained, for it is on the road where we will truly learn."

"He _craves_ this." Nathan bore no lie on his face. "He has no friends, no social-life. No dreams for his life. He has _nothing_ outside of the Department. He has no life. The only people who know he still even exists are sitting in this very room. I truly believe the thing he wants the most is to hunt… Voldemort."

"Are you feeling sorry for Harry? Are you starting to regret taking him in?" Albus only asked out of a vague sense of curiousness, but it enraged Nathan fiercely.

"Fuck you… fucking heartless bastard!"

And Albus knew, on a very basic level of human nature, that being able to make these choices, living with them, enduring the hardships they brought onto his soul – it would make him callous and cruel in the eyes of most. Which was exactly why he did it; because he was strong enough to do it, because if he did not do it, then who would?

Who would?

"This is exactly why he shouldn't be out there. Yet." Albus' voice was soft, yet it obviously aggravated Nathan by the flickering look of rage and edginess in his brown eyes. "He is still too young…"

"He is twenty-five, Dumbledore! You started testing him in his first year here. Harry told me about his little adventures in this school."

"The difference between the confrontations Harry faced here at Hogwarts – or, I should say, the ones I had any part of – are vastly different than the ones he will face today." Albus paused, sighed and ached at the cruelty of destiny. "Lord Voldemort has proven himself methodical, cunning beyond even what I had foreseen. His patience has proven that he doesn't do anything with callous intent. Not anymore. Not after Harry… If there truly are Death Eaters in Norway, then they're there for an immensely important reason. I believe Harry will encounter more resistance than you seem to think."

Suddenly, a streak of bright light surged into the Headmaster's office. Albus acted on age-old instinct and, far quicker and potent than Nathan could ever hope to be, had his wand trained on the light as it coalesced into the familiar shape of a majestic stag.

Albus beheld what he knew to be Harry's Patronus, gazing at the creature of light like it was an old friend.

It belonged to a dear friend, after all – and if being able to call Harry that made him hypocritical, then so be it.

The stag seemed to gaze at Dumbledore for a moment, judging him with white, soulless eyes, then turned to Nathan, the true recipient of the message.

"Nathan," Harry's voice said softly, echoing ominously in the room, "just found the Mountains. Still no sign of Death Eater activity yet, but the Norwegian motherfuckers are definitely here. Setting up camp and preparing for tomorrow. Harry – though you probably already knew that."

Albus chuckled at the colourfulness of Harry's language as the Stag flared out and shattered in a sparkling shower of silvery wisps of light, which fell to the floor and evaporated like smoke on the wind.

"See?" Nathan said, unable to hide the note of triumphing smugness in his voice. "He is _fine_ , Dumbledore. And thinking rationally."

"Just an old man's worries," Albus repeated his earlier words vacantly as his laughter died upon his lips, staring off into nothingness, contemplating Harry's words with a calculated mind. The words _Norway_ and _Mountain_ and _Norwegian motherfuckers_ began to piece themselves together in Albus Dumbledore's mind, creating a very ugly picture. "What are the Death Eaters doing in Norway, Nathan?"

Nathan sighed, apprehensive, and made a guttural noise of despair and dark humour in the back of his throat. Albus didn't like the sound of that tone, and his mind swirled onwards onto conclusions most unpleasant to contemplate.

"Well," Nathan began, "given the location of the village, Trollmans Plass, where the dark-robbed men were said to come and go frequently – I guess even Dark Wizards need to eat sometimes…" Nathan shook his head. "Well, on the outskirts of the village there is a path leading to the Northern Mountains habitat of the-"

"Norwegian Ridgeback," Albus breathed, understanding now just where in Norway Harry was. Taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes tiredly, he resigned himself to the fact that today promised nothing but pain and dark surprises.

"Yes." Nathan nodded.

Albus also said nothing, his mind ablaze with thoughts. Oh yes, Harry was definitely walking into a most perilous situation – especially if Voldemort managed to control the beasts. The path to the Northern Mountains was indeed very treacherous, and many a wizard had died on those paths. Muggles couldn't see the Mountains, for old magic rested upon the ancient fields, shielding it from unworthy eyes. It was years since Albus had last made the hike from Trollmans Plass, the closest point of apparition. Back when his soul was still raw and heavy from the loss of Arianna and his bones still strong and vigorous.

Nowadays Albus knew the roads would be very unforgiving on his old body. Magic would help, no doubt, but alas, out there it worked… falsely. _Wrong_.

Everything was… awry. The sky acrid with the heavy stench of old, dark magic, the fields cursed with the surety of chaos, and the creatures blessed with the fortune of great strength, lest the nature around them would claim their bodies.

He had no doubt that Harry could make it through the perilous cold of Mountain Winter – even though it was Christmas in a few days and the winter would be at its strongest. But fighting against a roaster of Death Eaters and Merlin knew how many dragons – wild or controlled, Harry would meet dragons if he dwelled too far.

Harry would have a lot on his hands. What if Voldemort, somehow knowing that Harry would be there, was ready to ambush Harry when he began to explore the mountain?

Some of the worry Albus felt must have shown, for Nathan spoke up, voice calm and tinged with sympathy. "Believe in Harry, Albus. He's ready for this."

Nathan had an incredible capacity for good, Albus marvelled. Sometimes it rivalled even Harry.

Albus nodded, satisfied with his answers, and gazed out his window. The sky had grown dark and beset with grey clouds of snow, but here and there, starlight flittered out through the cracks in the sheet of clouds. The light sparked a flare of hope within Albus, a flare of believe, and he nodded resolutely.

"You are right. Harry is up to the task."

"Thank you," Nathan said sincerely, and it was like a weight was lifted from the other man.

An easy, comfortable silence settled over the heart of the office. Each man wandered round in their own thought, and for a few minutes Albus stared at a simple trinket on his desk, watching the hazy smoke drift around lazily within the orb of glass that contained it.

After a few minutes of silence, however, Nathan broke it again.

"Why's Harry so important to you?" he asked and leaned forward. "I know about the existence of a prophecy, but surely you don't place your faith in such obscurities!"

"Harry never entrusted you with its contents?" Albus asked, truly surprised, although he didn't show it.

Nathan shook his head. "No. He said it was better I didn't know. Kind of thought it was you who said he shouldn't talk about it, and he was just protecting you."

"I assure you I demanded no such thing," Albus said. "Quite the opposite, in fact. Should Harry deem one worthy of this particular knowledge, I have no doubt that they are indeed worthy. I thought he had told you…" Albus trailed off, saddened beyond measure. "He truly trusts no one, does he? He speaks with no one about the burdens destiny has bestowed upon him…" A slight pause filled the air with the malevolent feeling of lost innocence. "Well, It doesn't really matter if I believe in the Prophecy or not. Voldemort does. That's all that matters."

Albus feared that the reason for Harry's lack of trust in others might have had something to do with his childhood at the Dursley's, which made it Albus error. Truly, he hated himself for subjecting the wizard to such a childhood. But when he was given the choice between the safety of Harry or the happiness of Harry, he had to make the hard but right choice.

Given the choice today, he would have done no different.

Wizarding world depended upon the right decision of hard choices.

And Harry had always understood Dumbledore's choice, had shown a maturity that not many teenagers were capable of.

Ah, Harry – he had suffered enough. But deep down Albus knew that the hardest challenges and deepest regrets lay in Harry's future and not in his past.

And there was nothing Albus could do to stop it. Quite on the contrary, it seemed that he was merely destined to prolong the suffering on the boy he had come to love and respect above all others.

The burden had befallen Harry the moment Snape came to Voldemort with bits of that accursed prophecy.

Harry, and the connection he shared with Lord Voldemort, was the only thing that could save them. Harry, and his bravery…

But oh Merlin, sometimes Dumbledore wished he could pass on this knowledge and live the rest of his olden days in blissful ignorance, so he wouldn't have to witness the wretched destiny of a man who deserved so much more, wouldn't have to contribute to the wretchedness.

Sometimes… Dumbledore felt truly, utterly old.

* * *

Harry got up at the return of dawn, dispelled the wards hiding his camp with a few precise flicks of his wand, shrunk it all, and stored it in the inner pocket of his dark wool coat.

The time for work was upon him again. Climbing over the slope on which he had made his makeshift camp for the night, and feasting his eyes upon the nature of Northern Mountain in all its mesmerizing glory, Harry felt he had been dealt a hefty debt – a blessing and a curse.

Out here… a power both wondrous and terrible… Harry didn't know what the fuck was going on.

Last night it had been dark and snowy, and Harry hadn't been able to see much of anything, except for what was right in front of him. The weather had cleared up during the night, however, and sparkling sunlight blazed from the azure sky above as the sun slowly rose, setting the Mountains awash with a breath-taking clearness and _realness_ in a crimson haze.

And, really, it was real. Harry understood that now. Although he had seen it all before, he had come to appreciate the vastness of this wasteland.

It was real – and _wild_.

For a few hours, dark thoughts had entertained his mind as he had made his dangerous trek through the wastelands of snow and ice and _deadness_. Dark thoughts that whispered with an illusory certainty that what he was chasing simply wasn't real, that the sightings of Death Eaters were mere figments of some fucker's imagination.

For a moment, he had even entertained the thought that Nathan had been wrong about the dragons' whereabouts – and Nathan, back when he was still young, had gained that particular knowledge from Dumbledore, which made Harry's treacherous thoughts all but sacrilege.

Harry sighed. He carried onwards. Alone.

A few hours later, after carefully treading through the supposedly perilous dangers of the wilderness, Harry had gotten just a touch impatient. Nothing had sprung out of the snow to scare the shit out of him yet – as it had every other day – no beast of olden days, no creatures of fire ready to smote him with belches of flames, and – most disappointedly – no Death Eaters had shown up.

He was _itching_ for a shot of pure adrenaline, of sheer power.

Not long after, Harry made his second camp at the foot of Northern Mountains, wondering idly if he should point out in his message to Nathan how fucking stupid and vague the reason for this mission was. He decided against it; it was too soon to admit defeat, and tomorrow he would begin the climb anew, strong and whole. Defiant.

With that thought in mind he went to rest and felt into a dreamless, uneasy sleep that was disturbed multiple times by the rough sounds of the wilderness around him.

Two days later found Harry scalding the crisp and coarse snow of the mountainside, aloof and without fear, the challenge presenting only a nebulous sense of tenacity. He had conquered the naked bedrocks yesterday – using his broom to zoom past the arduous task with the ease only a wizard could manage – and was now once again half-submerged in thick slabs of heavy, old snow. Snow that ceased to freeze and never melted. Snow that seemed spelled with old resistance to magic.

It was snow with the impunity against the commands of time.

He would have flown more if not for the fact that he might be missing something, a trail of footsteps, on the grounds.

Days passed and the shrunken food in Harry's pockets diminished slowly, like a malevolent clock inching ever closer to the end of days with a torturous, unstoppable certainty. Harry knew he didn't have long left before he had to give it up, and apparate back home to London.

The path turned downwards one day, still heading north but now away from the magical top of the Mountain.

On the seventh day, as Harry chewed absentmindedly on his last piece of bread, which tasted foul and harsh and _old_ , he trekked the last climb and came upon a well-worn path leading down into a clearing on the other side of the Northern Mountains.

Mountaintops stretched out above him, on all sides of the world. _The Master Mountain_ , as Harry had named it, was visible behind him – his vague footsteps, which were being erased from existence by the howling snow, led back towards it.

Harry stopped and frowned. A familiar and welcomed sensation rose in the darkened well of his very soul. Amidst the billowing snow and wind, a roar of rage pierced the air, sending almost pleasurable shivers down Harry's spine. From somewhere below, hidden in a mass of snow-covered trees, a column of flames rose into the air.

"Dragons," Harry murmured so softly he didn't hear his own voice. His psyche was battered by an intricate maze of dissimilar emotions, relieved and frightened in equal measures. His right hand clutched his wand, where wispy streaks of crimson power curled around the tip in a loving caress, itching to be unleashed at last.

He needed a scheme, however, an idea of his course of action. He needed to scout out the area, check how many Death Eaters they had gathered, check how many fucking dragons they had assembled, and, oh fucking hell, he needed to keep his head in the fuckin' game.

He needed to shed some light on what he was up against, to make sure that he wasn't walking into a trap, to make sure that he could make it out alive, to-

"Oh well…" Harry murmured, almost pleasantly, as he flicked his wand and conjured his faithful Patronus. "Hey dad…" he said, and relayed his message to Nathan, before sending it off to Britain with a swish of his wand. Then he turned back to the Death Eaters' camp. "Let's say hello, shall we?"

* * *

His checkout hadn't garnered anything of significant value. Wards of almost immovable strength had been erected around the valley, shielding it from the eyes of the world.

The wards spoke of a caster with a certain amount of magical strength. This could prove to be a challenge, after all. Not Voldemort, for the strength wasn't _that_ vast, but a Death Eater in high places.

Bellatrix, mayhap? Harry thought it unlikely, considering the mysterious child rumours told of…

He pressed the heel of his left hand against his temple and let out a soft huff of manic laughter. "Fuck this shit." Wand clasped tightly in his right hand, he had it outstretched before him, at the invisible web of deceitful magic. Harry leeched his magic into his wand and formed the spell with the intent of his mind.

A scorching beam of silvery light pulsed from the tip of his wand. Trying to blast his way through the wards he had encountered at the end of the path, just before the forest started, Harry felt it rear up and resist his power. Harry let his magic flow through him and into his wand, which buckled under the continuous strain in his hand, crudely attempting to overpower the resistance of the wards with his power.

Dumbledore, Harry figured as he observed the streaks of crimson light flicker over a transparent dome of protective magic, would be appalled by his lack of subtlety, but Harry hadn't seen either Death Eaters nor smelled a whiff of pussy in the last week. He was on the edge!

Granted, he hadn't smelled pussy in quite a while before that, either. But that was beside the point.

The wards shimmered unceasingly, but withheld against his magic, and Harry ceased his assault with a careless flick of his wand, impressed and pleased – this was going to be amusing. The silvery-streaked crimson light died down, and the only source of light became the scorching, orange rays of the setting sun, half-covered by the ascended tops of the mountains and the curtain of blistering winds and snow.

Harry gazed with cold apathy over his shoulder at the motionless figure at his feet. An unconscious Death Eater, silver mask half-askew and broken upon his face, breathed deeply in even intakes of breath. With a sigh, Harry summoned the mask and beheld the Death Eater's face.

Harry didn't know him. Not the caster of the wards, then. He had an unkempt look, his dark-blonde hair wild and mattered – like it hadn't even seen the promise of a shower in weeks – his reddish and silver beard was in a desperate need for a shaving. Harry thought he saw something crawl in it, and sighed disgustedly.

He, Harry, probably didn't look much better, but what the fuck…

The Death Eater's lips were turning a sickly-cerulean colour, Harry noted.

Harry woke him up.

The man spluttered and came to with a mad glint in his dull, unremarkable blue eyes. Fear. Defiance. Harry had seen it all – mostly in the mirror.

The Death Eater stared up at Harry with a righteous fury, and touched about his robes for his wand on pure instinct.

A smirk curled Harry's upper-lip, unseen beneath his spells, and he dangled the unknown Death Eater's wand in his left hand. "Looking for this?" he asked, his voice coarse with the vast disuse that several days alone brought along. "I'm afraid I've made it a bit of a habit _not_ letting Death Eaters keep their wands." Harry shrugged, still smiling as he stooped down so he was eye to eye with the Death Eater. "You see," he continued amicably, "they tend to try to kill me when they discover who I am."

Some of the mad fire had died in the Death Eater's eyes, replaced with a growing sense of dread. "Who – who are you?"

Harry, now smiling broadly, drew back the spells on his head and revealed his face. His hair was short and still largely unruly. His scar was as red and raw as it had been since Voldemort's return – a testament to the Dark Lord's continuing existence. His face had filled out, grown out of the adolescence of his youth. His green eyes were bright emerald and guarded. Detached and calculated. But chiefly, it was still the recognizable face of Harry Potter.

It was the face of a, to the wizarding world, dead man.

" _Harry Potter…_ "

Growing horror etched onto the edges of the man's eyes. He stumbled back, crawling with his hands, mumbling inanely about impossibilities and forgiveness.

Harry considered the Death Eater for a moment. "Ah, you're a new Death Eater, aren't you?" he mused softly, voice whisper-thin in the quiet wind. "Voldemort, of course, knows of my existence, which is why most Death Eaters of a certain… ah, _experience_ … know, as well. You, however, displayed true surprise, eh. You are rather green, aren't you?"

After giving a startled yelp of fright at Harry's casual use of the accursed name of his master, the Death Eater nodded quickly, franticly, seizing a lance of courage when he saw Harry's, for now, benign nature.

Harry nodded amicably. "Ah, what is your name, Death Eater?"

"Alfred. Alfred Dunham," he answered after a slight pause.

Harry nodded, satisfied. "Alfred. Alfred, what do you say if I make you a… proposition?"

"Proposition?" The courage in the Death Eater's eyes flared into the unmistakable death trap of hope. "What kind of proposition?"

"The kind where you get to walk away from here alive," Harry said smoothly. "You see, I'm meet with some slight problems in the face of these wards, and…"

"You can't break them?" The Death Eater asked breathily, and Harry thought he detected a certain measure of wonder in his voice, although when he looked at his face he couldn't see a shred of it.

"Oh, no, no." Harry shook his head, smiling. Then he frowned. "Well. Maybe. I was expecting that, though. Or something like it, at least," he said, motioning with his hand at where the transparent wards were. He could feel the radiation of power coming from them in the back of his mind, like a buzz that wouldn't falter. "But, you see, I'm meet with some _slight_ problems in the face of these wards, and they got me thinking. I have _so_ many questions left unanswered here, and then you came along… So, what about it? Answers for your freedom? Tit for tat?"

"Tit… for tat?" the Death Eater repeated, dumbfounded.

"No matter." Harry waved him on. "By the state of your appearance I'd say you guys have been out here for quite a while. Three weeks, at the least, right? Ah!" Harry raised his hand, stopping him from answering him. "That wasn't a question, Death Eater, just speculations and deductions. I don't give a fuck, really. Now," -Harry leaned down to the Death Eater, so close that he could smell the whiff of _Firewhisky_ upon the other man's breathe- "who's in charge of this operation?"

"Rodolphus Lestrange."

A wheeze of acknowledgement rose in Harry's throat. "Rodolphus, you say… Shouldn't he be home with dear ol' Bellatrix and care for their daughter?"

"I…" The Death Eater swallowed nervously. "I wouldn't say that to his face, if I were you," he muttered with no small amount of fear evident in his voice.

"Sore topic, I imagine." Harry nodded mock-sagely and ignored the note of warning, thinking for a moment about the supposedly squib daughter Bellatrix gave birth to about four years ago. Then he moved on to more important matters. "How many men do you have here?"

"About twenty-five."

"About?"

"Some comes and goes, depending on where they're needed the most."

"What's your purpose out here?" Harry queried, his mind in a swirl of thoughts.

"Gathering Norwegian Ridgebacks for the Dark Lord. They dwell here. It's their natural habitats. They are drawn to the magic upon these fields."

Harry searched for any sign of a lie in the man's eyes and tone of voice, but he found none.

He sighed.

"Aren't they supposed to be really rare, though?" Harry wondered aloud, looking around as if he hoped a dragon would coalesce out of nothingness. "I heard they're extremely aggressive towards their own kind…"

Dunham nodded. "They are. Which would explain why we have only been able to uncover three of the beasts. Picked one up yesterday, actually…"

Harry frowned in thought and looked down the path ahead. At least one of the dragons must still be there…

"How many dragons do you have on camp?" Harry inquired.

"Just the one. The other two we sent back to the Dark Lord." The Death Eater shivered as a slither of cool wind brushed against them, picking up. "Please, Potter. I've answered all your questions. Give back my wand and I promise you shall never see me again."

Okay. If he promised, then… Harry scoffed, a dark glint of resignation in his eye, although it was gone a second later as the gravity of what he must do settled in. "Just one more thing," Harry said, twirling his wand between his fingers in an absentmindedly manner. "What does Voldemort want with dragons? Can he control them?"

Dunham shuddered again at the indifferent mentioning of the dreaded name, but kept his yelp of panic in the back of his throat. "I – I wouldn't know. He doesn't share that kind of information. But I can speculate…" he finished darkly.

As could Harry. "No. I imagine he don't." Harry sighed, then raised his wand and pointed it towards Alfred's heart.

The Death Eater's eyes widened with immeasurable fear, staring at Harry with a look of utter betrayal. "NO! No, you promised! You promised you'd let me go!"

Harry sighed, taking no pleasure in this act of cruelty. "Yes. Yes, I did." Harry suddenly felt an incurable and irrational need to explain himself to the Death Eater. A lance of self-hatred rose in his heart. He continued, his voice soft and yet, somehow, strong enough to be heard over the wind. "But, you see, Dunham, a couple of years ago – I was presented with a situation not dissimilar to our current… _predicament_. I caught and stunned a Death Eater. I had to decide if I was going to kill him or let him go, seeing as I could hardly waltz into the Ministry and deliver him to them. Oh, how I thought, thought about what to do. You see, he, too, promised that our paths would never cross again, that he would never hurt another innocent man or woman…" Harry stooped down to the Death Eater's eye level again, whispering softly as the last vestiges of daylight cast cruel shadows upon his face. "…Finally, he promised that he would never serve Lord Voldemort again. So I let him go."

Harry laughed with the bitter sound of regrets never to be taken back. In his youthfulness, he had been so damn trusting, so damn… forgiving.

"I let him go… My foolish sense of self-righteousness demanded no less. A week later, however, I caught him holding a Muggle woman down as his companion raped her mercilessly in a back alley of London. The woman's husband was bleeding to death against the wall… the last thing he saw before he died was the woman he loved getting raped! All because of my weakness…"

The young Death Eater shook his head with frenzied panic, eyes wild and round, coarse tears of shame trickling down his blotched cheeks. "I would… I would…" The words tumbled off his mouth, but refused to form reason. " _Never_! I swear! Have mercy!"

"I didn't hesitate this time. No misguided sense of self-righteousness was gonna prevent me from doing what needed to be done," Harry said, speaking like he hadn't heard the other man, speaking mostly to himself, in fact. "I killed the fucker who raped her, stunned the girl – I'd deal with her battered mind later – and then I turned my wand upon the man. The man that haunts my dreams to this day still, when Voldemort does not. Strengthen my resolve."

"I'd never… You won't have to worry! Don't do something you'll regret!"

"Which do you think I'll regret most? Letting you live? Or killing you? I didn't regret my first kill – I was only eleven back then. Barely thought about it afterwards… I regret not killing that man." Harry's lips curled into a wretched smile of hard-earned truth, and paused in his reminiscence. "But I'll always worry about you, Alfred Dunham. Will you be a mistake I should have dealt with? Like all past mistakes. You mere presence upon this Earth will resonate in here," -Harry pointed his finger to his temple- "and let me tell you, there's already well and truly fucked up there."

"I can be your man on the inside! I… I know things! I can learn things! Things valuable to your organization!"

"My organization?"

"You work for Dumbledore, right?" Dunham asked. His voice had grown steady and his face revealed a tight control of his emotion that weren't there moments ago. "His Order of Phoenix."

Harry laughed, devoid of anything but harsh amusement. "I? Working for the Order? Do you really think Dumbledore would enact a full-blown, one-man attack upon a Death Eater operation, funded by Lord Voldemort?"

Yes, he would. For the right cause, and the right gains, Albus Dumbledore would sacrifice everything. And anyone. He had to be that man. But Dunham, of course, did not know that, and would no doubt believe the reasoning Harry presented.

Utter silence ruled the decayed air of blood and warfare. When all was said and done, when the fight would come to an end and one would stand victorious above all, there would be no honour to salvage, no triumph with which you could rebuilt the remnants of a society as fickle as theirs. There would only be silence. And blood.

Fucking hell! The Death Eater was on his knees before Harry; he was defeated, motherfucking _defeated_.

It didn't fucking matter.

They were soldiers of opposing ideals. Nothing more.

"Again," Harry murmured, voice cold and remote, "the man who would haunt me for the rest of my life was before me. He begged – he told me with tears streaming down his face that he had been forced to do what he did. That he either proved his loyalty with an act of such depravity, such… _wrongness_ … that his loyalty could not be questioned. Once again he begged me to spare his life. Once again a part of me believe him – desperately wanted to believe him. And, _Alfred Dunham_ , do you know what I did?"

The Death Eater, Alfred Dunham, had stopped his sobbing for forgiveness and was staring at Harry with an emotion Harry hadn't encountered before in a Death Eater. Acceptance. Acceptance of his own mortality, of his own _guilt_. And for a moment that made him pause, for that differentiated from all the other Death Eaters he had ever encountered.

Maybe, just maybe, this man would be different. Maybe he could change, forge himself a meaningful life and let go of whatever drove him to become one of Lord Voldemort's servants.

 _Sectumsempra!_

In the end, it didn't fucking matter.

Harry knew better now.

A flash of bright, white light illuminated Harry and the Death Eater for a single heartbeat, a spell carving through the Death Eater and sending him to the ground. Blood and gore gushed from Dunham's chest and splattered down upon the white snow as Dunham, quivering as death laid claim upon his soul, collapsed, motionless, to the ground with a soft thud. Air heaved and wheezed out of him; trying to tether himself to any wisp of life he had left.

He had none.

"I killed him," Harry said, rising to his feet with an indifferent numbness that didn't come from the cold. "Killed him as I killed you… You see, sometimes a man must do the unpleasant thing, no matter how much he hates doing it. Sometimes it needs to be done because you don't know what might happen. Or might not happen… It is simply beyond your _control_."

And if there was a note of apology within that monologue, then that was just regret trying to tear his defiance asunder.

Harry stared at Alfred Dunham until the last breath left him.

He didn't linger after that, didn't allow for regret to enter his mind. He pocketed Dunham's wand after summoning it, and turned to the wards before him. He affixed in his mind the sensory feeling of the wards he had touched, when he last cast his magic upon them. Then, jabbing his wand in a harsh gesture of violent intentions, he unleashed a purple spell of destructive strength.

It struck and pealed the raw edges of the wards from each other, sparkling flakes of dying magic radiated onto the grounds in a splutter of collapsed spell-work.

Then the alarm sounded, and Harry knew he would be confronted soon. Blinding fast, he raised his wand towards the sky, and a golden light forked up and expanded into thick, fetid layers of Anti-Apparition wards.

They would not escape his wrath. Not tonight.

Nothing fucking mattered anymore.


	2. Spells of Purgatory: Prologue Part Two

**Chapter Two of The Unspeakable**

 **Spells of Purgatory: Prologue Part Two**

He hesitated.

He was fucking stuck in place, immovable and doubtful.

There was something there, on the cusp of his senses, just out of his reach. If he could only grasp at its meaning…

The air was alight with sensuous illusions.

The first things Harry noticed when the wards broke apart were the sudden presence of foreign smells and sounds, which had been hidden by the magical layer Harry had just torn asunder.

The peculiar and abrasive mixture of sulphur and scorched flesh reached Harry with a potency that threatened to leave his throat gagging and eyes watering. Together, if Harry considered it, the blend of odours revealed an easily solved mystery that Harry chose not to dwell too much upon.

Defiant screams and cursed orders of panic pealed off the chilly, night air, clinging to the opaque roof of endless tree-crowns like a prophecy of untold misery. Like something from a nightmare better left forgotten ascended the crimson sky of Voldemort's unseen reign.

He hesitated still, heart beating that old beat of fear and determination. Fighting for dominance, the emotions, the basic instincts, threatened to overwhelm him, to unhinge the legs away beneath him, and leave him an easy victim for the unforgiving world around him.

Inconsequential thoughts of mundane shit passed through his head in a maelstrom of escapism. He wanted to leave, yes. Of that there was no doubt. Yet, another part – in some fucked-up dark corner that had come to accept the sheer madness of his life – revelled in this, revelled in the fear, in the scarred, soul-wrenching black fire in his gut, which swirled and swirled and swirled until he was a dizzy mess of tangled, incomprehensible emotions.

He jerked off with his left-hand. The thought made him pause, because what the fuck! He was right-handed, killed and performed magic with his wand – _wands_ – firmly clasped in his right-hand, but he jerked off with his left-hand…

Why was that?

Fuck that shit. Meaningless pursuits of escapism, of nightmares and daydreams, to take the edge off, to take away the top of his dread…

But what a fucked-up thought it was.

Harry heard the panicky shouts and hurried footsteps of his upcoming adversaries. He could see the hole in the trees, the entrance, into their camp – into the cesspit of dark intentions and awry desires.

Harry could feel the pain of Voldemort, his _realness_ , lingering on the trees like an ominous note of vengeance.

Well. It was a long way down the rabbit hole and all that trippy shit.

He contemplated the concept of fear, and searched himself for any sign of it that needed eradication. There was a small segment, for he wasn't suicidal – though fate and prophecy seemed to point in that way, anyway – but Harry knew it was not that which distorted his resolve.

He didn't fear the Death Eater, no matter the amount of them. They'd meet him when he chose to make his presence known – as he had prepared for. They could throw themselves onto his path to no avail. He would strike them all down within mere moments if he unleashed his formidable power and skill upon them.

No. Death Eaters alone wouldn't hold much of a problem tonight; it was what they clasped in their filthy hands that Harry dreaded, what they held caged down there at the end of this path Harry treaded.

A dragon.

A _real_ fucking dragon.

"Okay. I _did_ promise Nathan I would survive…" Harry murmured to bolster himself, to find some semblance of comfort he could seek courage from. Staring down the path, however, and hearing the occasional low rumble of the dragon, made such a thing as courage seem beyond Harry's capabilities at the moment. "And Dumbledore would be very disappointed if a mere dragon managed to get the drop on me."

He would be disappointed, for dragons weren't nearly as frightening as Harry made them out to be. But childhood traumas could be a powerful thing.

Powerful things indeed.

Oh well. A Killing Curse would make it easier, he imagined. If he could muster the _want_ to kill, that was. He hadn't been able to do that before. Ever.

And, _Merlin_ … he had fucking tried.

The path evened out further below and disappeared underneath the white sheet of snow-covered trees, the soft blanket of white hiding their anxious, hurried actions and the beast of fire from his gaze. But they were there, in the forest, awaiting his arrival.

And then the world stilled. And in that stillness, a screaming abyss of doubt, of fraying sanity, filled the void with its oppressive presence. The heavy sounds of defiant shouts and hurried footsteps died away. The low rumble of the dragon died out in a hush of feral anticipation – leaving only the awful, soft wind rustling the very nature round him.

They were ready. They were expecting him now.

Nothing fucking mattered anymore. Right?

"Well," Harry said as he felt something click into place within him, into an apathetic calm of indifference. "Better not keep them waiting, then…"

Apathy. Turns good men cruel. Composed. For nothing matters if you don't give a flying fuck.

He set his body in terrible motion, eyes detached and alert. Coolly calculative.

As he moved amongst the ebbing winds of unseen origins, he could make out the coarse, steady sounds of his own footfalls against the jagged, rocky path, crunching ominously like far-away whispers behind a veil of death.

 _Crunch, crunch, crunch…_

Near and near he went to the edge of the forest, descending the path and descending into the inner-demons of his heart, of his past. His eyes continued to be alert, scanning and considering everything, and his wand was tense and outstretched ahead, humming with prepared spells, like the various instructors had drilled it into his head over the years, in those dreary, dark rooms of anonymity.

 _Constant Vigilance_ , soft, scornful whispers of dread filled the space in his head, his memories, his divided fuckin' souls. They should have sounded like Moody, but they did not; they sounded like Voldemort, slithering in the darkest corners of his own heart, hissing, and Harry tried without a shred of success to contain the shudder that went up his spine.

 _Fuck_! He was pathetic.

He stepped onto the threshold of the forest, which was placed in a valley in-between the Northern Mountains, beneath the dying light of the sun and the coalescing Northern Lights, and something prickled at his senses.

Something wizardry.

" _Avada Kedavra!_ " a male voice snarled darkly from Harry's right. A vast, howling wind rushed at him like a giant gutter stabbed through the very air with an unstoppable, concussive strength.

Harry was faster. He had already moved. The sound of the most dreaded spell in the Wizarding World dispelled the last fragments of his worries, replaced it with a sense of recognisability; he had been here before. He had been on the receiving end of that curse far too much of his life – in the green light of mortal peril, he found something he was cursedly familiar with.

The fear of death.

He spun about on the uneven road, flicked his wand and conjured a silver shield of solid mass – _thank you, Voldemort!_ – which, though it buckled beneath the vast power in the green jet of death, held strong against the curse that was said to be impossible to block.

Impossible is nothing. Just ask Voldemort. Immortal fucker!

Harry was still kicking.

Before he knew he was doing it, acting on the age-old instinctual parts of his soul that tethered one to life, he jabbed his wand in a decidedly aggressive manner. A jet of crimson light poured out of the tip, slamming into the shocked Death Eater's face and rendering him unconscious an instant later.

The silvery shield fell away into nothingness.

The Death Eater fell to the ground and landed atop a small pile of snow with a soft, almost imperceptible _thud_ … Which rocketed like a fork of thunder across the entrance, booming and onerous.

It drew with it a roar of explosive force, as Death Eaters came out of hiding all round Harry and became alight with the force of frenzied ferociousness and sheer believe, almost clamouring over each other to get at Harry.

Harry, weaving about quickly and waving his wand in a series of intricate motions, magic trailing with slow, golden wisps, detected seven Death Eaters all around him. As the first wave of magic, a multi-coloured web of spells and curses, screamed at him with forces unbound, he knew he was once again thrust into the fray.

The first line of defence was upon him.

The golden wisps took form, and a golden web of power encompassed him as he stopped the fluent motions of his wand. The dome of gold hid him from their gazes, giving him a moment of distraction. And Harry, who was keyed into his own Anti-Apparition ward, disapparated almost soundlessly as the curses struck and shattered his shield with ease.

After all, it was merely the decoy.

Harry appeared a few feet away, in clear sight of the seven Death Eaters, although the distraction proved to be all the time Harry would need. He made a show of raising his wand, slow and deliberate, _revelling_ in the moment, and then he flicked it and five of the seven Death Eaters were swept off their feet with significant effortlessness. Harry didn't remain idle, spinning on his feet yet again and disapparating with a soft crack as another cascade of twin green curses sizzled through the air he left behind.

He appeared behind the two standing Death Eaters, and as they turned instinctively to Harry, he moved into action. Flicking and swishing his wand in two separate motions, magic radiated like an electric charge in the air. He sent one of them flying through the air, his neck snapping sickeningly, and the other buckling down into the ground with enough force to stop an elephant _dead_.

Naturally, his body gave way with a sickening, wet shredding sound as bones were _forced_ out of their sockets – Harry could see thick white remnants of bones protruding from the man's body, misshapen and splintered.

And, _oh God_ , did he scream! But even the screams, Harry noted, seemed muddled by the touch of his magic, like it was coming from the other end of a long tunnel.

The reaming five Death Eaters were slowly gaining their feet again, albeit a touch shakily, although the defiance showed clearly in the fire of their eyes.

They were no match for Harry.

He mowed them down, his wand trailing his side with thin, curling wisps of dark crimson, brilliant azure and fetid green power on the tip, spells replacing spells replacing yet other spells in a continuous stream of magic that possessed tremendous strength.

They all fell to his wand, screaming in anguish and defeat, splatters of blood drenching the formerly immaculate white snow as the crimson liquid oozed from open wounds. One Death Eater managed to raise a mediocre shield in time, by luck or by design Harry did not know, nor did he care for. The end result proved to be the same. The purple Slashing Curse cleaved right through his meagre shield and tore the Death Eater's body almost in two, a deep slash from left hip and almost all the way to right shoulder, where instantly small pebbles of blood began to trickle out of – then the dam broke and gore and a cataract of thick, crimson blood spoiled the torn black robes he wore.

Harry breathed out and, without sparring another glance at the dead bodies, moved onwards and descended into the forest.

When he turned to round the first corner, an animalistic snarl of pure fury split the night, oppressive in its all-reaching power.

It was a blood-chilling scream, thunderous and _blazing_. Harry flinched and allowed himself to fall to the side, crouching in the darkest corner he could find as instincts clamoured to take hold of his body.

Fear so vast it could have cloaked the sky in a red-blood crust of misery threatened to overwhelm him, but Harry had almost lost the battle to fear and indecisions once already tonight; he did not plan to do so again.

That dragon sounded _pissed_ , though! But the screams, when he thought about it, seemed to come from far, far away.

Harry blinked. Steeling his nerves, he stepped forth and rounded the corner, truly entering the forest at last. Behind him, the final shafts of scorching auburn rays of the descending sun flittered in the through the entrance, banished slowly by the darkness of the forest as Harry walked on.

He was just about to illuminate his wand, the spell on the edge of his mind, when he noticed that it was unneeded; he could see clearly, as if he was still strolling beneath the face of the sun, although there was no sources of light.

Enchantments of light. Harry mused to himself, impressed, and then, as the sense of the magic descended upon him, another thought followed close after; they had been at this for a while.

The magic seemed… _old_ , somehow. Not Hogwarts-old, but still… It lingered upon the trees; it radiated viscerally onto the very air round him. It stirred Harry's senses. Ominous magic. _Black magic_.

The amplified sense of magic, the propensity for detecting and unravelling pieces of lingering magic… a genuine feel of inspiration… It had been like that since he was first introduced to the wizarding world. Since the first time he stepped onto the threshold of Ollivander's wandshop. He had felt the magic, then, as tangible and real as touching water was for a muggle. And with Dumbledore's careful tutelage over the years, he had come to grasp the feel of magic with the intimacy of a life-long lover.

It was this feeling of discovery, of detecting magic old enough to have left an imprint upon its surroundings – a foreboding awareness that magical perils were just around the corner – that clung to Harry's heart as he strode onwards.

The first thing he noticed when he rounded the first corner was the suddenly odourless air, like he had entered another world far, far away. Then he beheld the soft blue light that bathed the clearing – or makeshift room – in a translucent, dreamlike radiance.

Then he noticed the Death Eaters, five in total, with wands trained at him. Unyielding. Unafraid. Yearning for his blood.

Harry, wand clutched tightly, raised his hands in a pacifying manner, grin hidden beneath his spells of concealment. "Hello boys," he said, voice cold and edgy, not sounding like his own. "I don't suppose you'll just scatter if I ask real nice, huh?"

A colourful wave of spells answered him, forking at him with deadly intent.

Harry moved into action, wand slashing downwards in a snap. A liquid patch of transparent magic, writhing and reflecting – like a distorted mirror – sprouted to life and wrought as a large sphere before him.

The curses splattered against it and ran like a web of crisscrossing thunder over its skin, small tendrils of different coloured fissures.

Flicking his wand, harnessing the shield and forming it into a hollow dome of water, round edge held forth, Harry charged headlong and reckless into their path; his foes distorted to his vision by the watery magic.

No matter.

He flicked his wand downwards as he ran forth, guiding magic one way, then flicked it upwards, guiding it the other way – weaving it all together in a swishing motion resembling the flick and swish of a Levitation Spell.

The first Death Eater was slammed into the ground as if gravity had suddenly become tenfold upon him, screaming and choking in his suddenly too heavy body and _blood_ ; the second Death Eater was raised in a lance of invisible magic, strings seizing around his neck and _choking_. Blood oozed from the edges of his eyes, as his wand clattered uselessly to the ground.

Another flick saw them, battered and fainting slowly, bound together, only to be consumed by the hollow dome of water that pounced and _embraced_ them with the ferociousness of a lion that hadn't seen food for months.

The three other Death Eaters, motionless, seemed smote by dread at the ease with which Harry had dispatched their fallen comrades. Harry cast his eyes to the men trapped inside the water, and beheld the look of abject horror on them as they hammered their fists feebly against the solid water, drowning. Dying.

The Death Eaters hesitated for only a second longer, staring at the water-dome like they considered ways to dissipate it, then thought better of it and became a flutter of motions and curses.

Harry didn't hold such doubts of hesitancy, didn't hold such weaknesses in the face of a battle. He had been at this for too damn long, seen too much fighting. He was born to do this, born to fight the coming darkness – prophesied to stand against these agents of Lord Voldemort.

And, anyway, it did not fucking matter.

He was born to _die_.

Harry, moving with the detached sense of purpose that was forged and tempered by the dark knowledge he had gained of his soul, weaved magic through the air. A thick band of dark-grey light _screamed_ out of his wand, shaking and humming with scarcely restrained power.

They fell out of the way, though; rolling and tugging along the dirt-ridden, slightly wet grounds.

Harry stepped forth, his wand outstretched and ready to press his advantage further. A jet of blue light, ominous and opaque on his wand tip, tore through the air, and the _Reducto Curse_ forked like a streak of blue thunder through one of the Death Eaters who was too slow to step aside, turning him into nothing but a fine mist of red blood that scattered floatingly in the windless air.

His mind awhirl with thoughts, he flicked his wand at the mist of thick crimson liquid, forming it, manipulating it.

The splattered blood of Harry's murder, muddled and fetid, coiled in mid-air into something more solid, _meaner_ , and ascended onto the nearby Death Eater, turning his impeccable white mask crimson and _shaded_.

It was messy. It was war.

It was a fucking slaughter.

Two last standing. Against Harry. The spilled blood of his colleague, which Harry had just splattered onto him, blinded one of them, and he tore off the crimson-smeared mask in disgust. The other was shaking, his wand held unsteadily outstretched before him.

Harry slashed his wand and issued forth another curse. The indented victim shambled out of the way, and was almost fast enough. The curse struck and pierced his shoulder, splintering bones into sharp shads of white and forcing a twisted scream of acrid anguish from him.

Harry blinked. Senses running afire with the decaying stench of death. Flickering fast, Harry snapped his neck across and beheld the emerald fire of the Killing Curse as it blazed towards him. Adorning a lazy grin, Harry apparated out of the way in the last second possible, using his advantage.

Using his momentum.

"Who the hell are you?" the, for now, unharmed Death Eater managed in a gruff voice heavy with exhaustion and desperation. Fucking wizards never possessed an ounce of physical strength, or the inclination to work to attain it. "Who the fuck are you!"

 _Useless distraction!_ Harry cursed silently, apparating again and appearing before them, jerking his wand across himself.

The yelling Death Eater screamed as his wand was torn out of his hand by an invisible blast of force. And as Harry swept his wand forward once more, there was a blinding flash of golden light; when the light flickered out of existence some seconds later, the Death Eater had been hurled into a tree, his head hanging at an odd, sickening angle.

Dark fire licked at his peripheral vision, and Harry, with grace granted to him by merciless hours of practice, neatly sidestepped the curse and returned a lance of black fire.

It belted like a whip, swishing and slashing in the air, and Harry motioned at the last Death Eater with his wand. The fire of blackness coiled through the air like a snake, humming with dark power, and struck the already damaged shoulder of the Death Eater in a blast of black, otherworldly flames.

A dull thud as the arm fell from his body to the ground and a scream of the utmost agony accompanied each other. The Death Eater, seemingly delirious with pain, looked upon the hole where his arm used to be attached to his shoulder with utter, frenzied disbelief. Harry beheld the tremor seizing the man's body; as if he tried to move the arm he could no doubt still feel.

The arm, however, lay innocently on the ground at his feet, blood dripping from the burned end. Harry noted that the arm still clasped firmly onto the Death Eater's wand, almost like a silent mockery.

The screams descended into the pitiful moans of agonizing fear. His legs buckled under the strain and gave way. The man fell to his knees, clutching his torn and mangled shoulder, shads of bones and pebbles of blood sticking out and meshing together. Through the agony, he raised his eyes to Harry's.

"The Dark Lord shall-"

A steady throbbing of acrid hatred flared into a chaotic mess of dark fire in the cesspit of his heart. As it always did at the mentioning of the accursed Dark Lord. Harry swished his wand, snarling, and there was a blinding flash of white-hot fire. When the light faded, and Harry could once again behold his work, he beheld the eye-sized hole in the middle of the man's forehead, still on his knees as if shackled to the ground.

There was a tiny rustling of wind, Harry's dark wool coat bellowing round the hem of his dark trousers, and the Death Eater fell onto his abdomen. Slowly, a pool of blood gathered from the wounds on his shoulder and head.

And then the doom of water gave in on itself, spluttering, and it released the two long since dead Death Eaters and fell onto the mangled body and pool of blood before Harry, washing away the red.

And then there was only the screaming stillness of wars ending.

Harry sighed and flicked his wand. The unmasked Death Eater rose off the ground and turned onto his back, settling back down. Harry beheld his features more closely, searching his memory for the man.

Nope. He didn't know him. He thought cynically – as he stared at the man's unremarkable features – it was just the same. A Death Eater was, in fact, always a Death Eater – and one Death Eater less was only a good thing.

It mattered not who the fuck he was. Only his choices mattered.

Harry stood and strode away, coat billowing behind him. He climbed the rickety path up the slope through the forest, eyes guarded and alert once more. His wand, alight with a _Lumos_ charm – for now the darkness seemed to know its true purpose – was outstretched and ready, radiating thin coils of spells around the white light on the tip, to be unleashed upon his foes.

There was more to be fought. He knew it. More Death Eaters. A dragon.

There was a whole fucking load of animosity, air alight with the tremendous force of opposing wills and ideals – foes and archenemies and little boys with scars facing immortal Dark Lords…

The forest thinned out as Harry descended deeper and deeper into its midst. Small patches of holes came consistently amongst the trees now, offering thin shafts of startlingly bright starlight that shone like radiating diamonds in the dark.

For every streak of starlight, the surroundings seemed to grow darker. Like the darkness was so overwhelming it could swallow the light. Like a void of blackness that bent light and air and shadow, gravity and reality – like something out of a half-remembered nightmare.

The shadows held within them magic foreign to mundane magic. Dark magic. Intuitive magic. Magic that could not be explained by mere books or clever rationality. Magic that Voldemort created with the complexity of his mind, that Harry could see and touch and feel, but he never truly _grasp_.

Harry sighed. He couldn't explain it, not even to himself. Maybe there was a point to be understood in that.

The darkness tethered to the reality around him, like a parasite, highly contagious. Deadly.

Every shadow, every ounce of impenetrable blackness, seemed to hold within it a dragon ready to pounce, ready to _demolish_. Prowling the wastelands of the forest with poisonous intent, in look of foes to smite, Harry contemplated the idea of allowing his own death by fire. Would the fire truly burn him? Would it truly _take_? Would it rob him of his life? Or did Lord Voldemort, and the shared connections of blood, soul and destiny, tether him to this mortal coil of wretchedness?

Was death truly the only escape? As Dumbledore seemed to believe.

Was he, when it came rightly done to it, just as fucked, soul-wise, as Voldemort was? Was his soul just as awry, as torn asunder and… _retarded_ as the Dark Lord's?

Deeper and deeper he went, feeling watched, feeling measured and feeling betrayed by his own traitorous thoughts. When he came face to face with a particularly bright, thick shaft of starlight, he stopped and beheld it, barely seeing it, but blinking at it all the same.

There was magic inside the light, different to the blackness yet there with it, like two halves of a whole; it was subtle and beautifully crafted, but it was there for the senses to comprehend if you knew what to look for, if you dared to look for it.

What the fuck was it? White magic? Fuck… Voldemort? No… That magic did not belong to the Dark Lord.

Did it?

Harry, curious, reached out to touch it before he knew he was doing it, his hand steady and moving as if time had become muddled and slow in the dark…

And then he touched it.

There was a tug of force behind his navel, and Harry was dragged out of space, through time, and spat headlong into another, rolling and tucking on the hard grounds. Feeling bogged down by eyes of imminent foes, he snapped his head up, wand-tip ablaze with crimson light as it stretched forth.

Eight wands pointed right at his heart. Eight sets of eyes stared at him, some blank, some malicious, all of them in shades of hostility. Animosity.

"Oh…" Harry blinked, pained by the sudden abuse to his body, breathless and sweating despite the cold, like he just ran through a mile of water. Confusion treaded on the edge distress. Magic could be a wonderfully terrible thing. It could grow to define you or shatter you. Harry knew this better than most. Better than Dumbledore even. Better than all save Voldemort.

Equals and opposites, the prophecy had said. Ah fuck. Only in his dreams.

There were no equals to the Dark Lord.

What was that magic? A Port-key, sure as hell, but there was something… something else…

No fucking matter.

He flicked his eyes over each of the eight Death Eaters, features rendered unrecognizable by the dark cloaks and silver mask.

"Well," Harry began, his voice coarse, and his lips dry, "there's been a terrible oversight here, I fear. I was led to believe there would be twenty-five of you. By my headcount, and granted math never was my strongest point, I only get twenty-two. Your dragon wouldn't have something to do with this… _vanishing act_ , would it?"

As if it knew it was being spoken of, beyond the trees behind the gathering of Death Eaters, a piercing, terrible shriek, accompanying with a sudden flare of auburn lights, resonated into the clearing.

"Well." Harry breathed. "There is the dragon, then."

"Who the bloody hell are you?" A Death Eater asked.

"I've been asking myself that for a long time," Harry murmured, then frowned at the recognisability of the voice. "Rodolphus?" Harry inquired, pungent hatred flaring anew, flaring like black flames turned into a swirling mess of madness. "Is that you, old mate?" he asked, voice amicably despite his state of mind.

The Death Eater, Rodolphus, tore off his mask with a snarl of rage. "You dare? _You dare_!" He paused and seemed to make an effort to control himself, to regain his composure in the face of his unbridled rage and fear. "If you know who I am, and you have come to challenge me willingly, then you are a _fool_! Do you know who I serve?"

His act of madness seemed rather artificial, but Harry couldn't exactly pin it down to something concrete. He chose not to dwell on it, thinking he had enough to deal with already.

" _Serve_ would be a stretch, I'd say," Harry said mildly, assessing the man with a casual look. His features hadn't changed much since Harry last laid eyes on him ten years ago. His hair was still shoulder-length and with only a few streaks of grey to mark the passage of time. His teeth were barred and yellow, and his eyes were dark-brown and vicious in his lunacy.

"You bloody imbecile! I will kill you! The Dark Lord shall crush-" he cut himself off, apparently fending off the madness that threaten to overtake him, to consume him, with a visible effort. "Who sent you?" he queried, calmer. "Who knows of our dwellings? Who dares to oppose the will of our Lord?"

It didn't escape Harry's notice that the men seemed wary to take actions against him, that most of them seemed faint of will against his presence. Being in their situation, hearing all your friends slowly get torn apart by a single individual, well, Harry could relate to that. He could relate to that _because_ , in part, of the man before him.

Their dread was relatable because of _that_ night – in the Department of Mysteries.

Ron. Hermione. Neville. Ginny. Luna. Sirius.

 _Death_ …

The tightly coiled control over his emotions threatened to break, his emotion clamouring to seize control of his heart and actions the moment Lestrange had revealed himself. But Harry prevailed against the maelstrom of old instincts… for now.

That man had been part in the slaughter that had taken everything from him. That man had killed Hermione.

"You know," Harry began, pleasant and benign, though there was a cold, inhuman edge that Harry just couldn't conceal. "I do wonder at you presence here, Rodolphus. I do so wonder. Shouldn't you be home with dear ol' Bella and your child?"

A primal scream of fury issued forth from Rodolphus Lestrange. And a green flicker of death split the air as his hatred bled into his Killing Curse.

Harry, grinning, stepped aside easily, a bounce of vindictive pleasure in his footfalls.

"Or is that Voldemort's bastard child, after all?" Harry said, noting Lestrange's laboured breath. "Like father like son, after all – both running from their children in shame? Was it only when he figured out she was a squib he lost interest and handed her over to your _gentle care_?"

" _Avada Kedavra!_ " Rodolphus Lestrange snarled with vicious hatred.

Harry, alert anew, swiftly stepped aside once more, bringing forth his wand, into the bout. He slashed it horizontal through the air, at chest height, like he wanted to backhanded something in the air, and a dark-indigo gash, like a tear in reality itself, shimmered into existence and raged towards the eight Death Eaters.

Rodolphus, his eyes at once ludicrously wide and panicky, stumbled backwards and fell onto his fucking arse. His cowardice and clumsiness proved to be his saving grace, however, as the curse struck upon the four Death Eaters standing the closest to Harry and made them catch fire in blue flames.

Dark Magic. Harry knew it all-too-well.

Their screeches of acrid agony split the air in a symphony of broken, burned bodies, and Rodolphus turned and stumbled back on his hands and knees, eyes wide and truly, utterly terrified. "KILL HIM!" he screamed as he finally rose to his feet and, with steps that seemed to be in the last stages of ambulatory drunkenness, vanished beyond the trees of the clearing.

His screams echoed long after he went away. Like a million versions of him screamed from within a void far, far away.

 _KILL HIM!_

 _KILL HIM!_

 _KILL HIM!_

Harry had a fleeting thought that the last three Death Eaters might have been under the Imperious Curse, for surely a sane man would back away from Harry. Fear would demand no less. Surely, they would look to their leader, see his turned back, and then make a break for it themselves.

Surely, that vacant look in their eyes didn't derive from a detached sense of duty towards a monster that valued them as little less than tools to be cast away.

Maybe they just feared Voldemort more than they feared Harry. Harry convinced himself that that must be it, for fighting against foes that were controlled took the small sense of virtue that was left out of his quarrel.

It made it seemed like cowardice instead of bravery, waste instead of necessity.

In the end, like all such things, there could be no mercy, even to the damned and the _potentially_ innocent.

The only female Death Eater of the night shrieked, loud enough to leave Harry's eardrums throbbing, and charged him with passionless efficiency. The two others followed her smoothly. Meticulously.

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

The curses were said as one, issued forth from three different wands in total synch.

As three jets of green fire descended upon Harry, a huff of laughter bloomed from his quivering lips. Rodolphus Lestrange was here. Hermione's killer! His right eye twitched with something akin to a burgeoned, frenzied madness, an unquenchable craving.

His whole body was shaking, mind walking on the fine edge between catharsis and cessation.

He surged forth, for catharsis, for meaning.

For vengeance!

He twirled on the spot and Disapparated, appearing behind the furthest behind Death Eater and stabbing him in the back with his wand – the tip glowed purple and a sharp edge, like a knife, extended forth and tore through the man's flesh. With a sharp, vicious tug, he pulled the knife of purple magic sideways, trying to rip it out of the man.

It jammed stuck in the ribcage, however; the man's body went rigid in his grasp, and slowly, acrid seizures wracking his entire body, the Death Eater craned his neck around to meet Harry's eyes. Up close, Harry could see the brown eyes clearly; they were afraid, the light behind them fainting fast.

Harry met the eyes coolly.

Two green lights blazed to life in Harry's peripheral vision, and Harry twisted on his feet on instinct alone, dragging the trembling Death Eater with him and using his body as shield. The Killing Curses both connected with the Death Eater's front.

The brown-eyed Death Eater went flaccid in Harry's hands. Harry let go of the body and he flicked his wand, dispelling the purple knife. Then he turned his wand on the closest Death Eater, the woman.

" _Sectumsempra_!" she spat, flicking her wand hurriedly.

A white jet tore out of her wand, but Harry merely batted the curse away with an absentminded gesture of his own wand, not even touching the curse.

"No, no, no," Harry tittered, waving his wand back and forth at her like he was dealing with a slow child. "Allow me to show you how it's done."

 _Sectum-_

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry's eyes widened a fraction in surprise as the other Death Eater sent forth another Killing Curse, interrupting his spell-casting. Swishing and flicking his wand, the body of the Death Eater beside him rose to intercept the curse. Harry managed to get it in the right height and it struck true, leaving him shocked and with a heart afire, but unharmed and still _kicking_.

"Ah," Harry said, eyes hard and cold despite his affable tone of voice, "now, that was not very sporting, was it?"

With a sharp slash, he sent a wave of concussive force spinning through the air, blasting the Death Eater off his feet. Then he turned to the female.

"As I was saying…"

A pop echoed across the clearing and a white flash of light challenged the darkness for a moment. Then the female Death Eater, gurgling on blood and staring at the space Harry had occupied before Apparating, fell to her knees, clutching her abdomen where Harry's Cutting Curse had torn through.

Harry crept up beside her knee-bound figure, keeping half of his focus on the last Death Eater, who was struggling to his feet. When he reached her side, he pushed the back of her head with his left palm, shoving her gently forward. She fell, soundless, to the ground, face in the dirt. Dead.

The last Death Eater finally gained his feet, shaking, whether it was out of fear or pain Harry couldn't guess.

He yelled something inarticulate… and turned tail and ran, scrambling like a monkey across the clearing towards where there was a tear amongst the trees, where Lestrange had vanished moments before the fight commenced.

Harry sighed. He raised his wand and gave it a lazy flick. Harry's spell pulled him back as easily as if he had caught him in invisible strings. He hovered back to Harry, motionless, bound in unseen ropes. Harry sighed again, wand aloft, face set in stony indifference.

"NO, PLEASE-"

 _Sectumsempra_.

The incantation was spoken only in the recess of his mind, yet it somehow overcame the frightful screams of the Death Eater, and the result was instantaneous. Blood spouted from ghastly wounds onto the frosty ground. The gurgled, wet sounds of a torn throat and strangled, inaudible words spilling with a pained, panicked edge filled the air. A second later there was no sound, only the small _drip-drip-drip_ of blood echoed.

"There, Rodolphus!" Harry called, flicking the body away with his wand. "The last man standing in here! You have nobody left to throw at me. Unless, of course, you hide Voldemort in there."

He didn't-

Something growled.

-But, fuck, Harry almost wished he did.

A vast rumble of an echoing roar resonated suddenly, shaking the air. Then a terrible shriek, accompanied quickly with an earthshattering force – like the very world was quivering now – filled Harry's world with a white-hot flash of dread.

"Oh. _Fuck_!" No. No, he wouldn't do that – surely not. He wasn't that desperate… And then, at last, another much more vicious and vile snarl of fearsome hunger forked the frosty air, and Harry knew he, Rodolphus Lestrange, had dared to unleash the beast.

"Fuck me!"

It came roaring out into the clearing, cleaving the trees that had cloaked its presence with mere swings of its impressive body. At least twenty feet tall, it towered to the roof of the trees. Harry had seen a Norwegian Ridgeback a couple of times in his life – he could still vividly remember Hagrid's less than stellar experience of parental affection from his first year – but this was different than anything he had ever seen.

It was wearing a fucking armour.

A magical armour of blackness.

Liquid shadows of dark power ran over the natural dark-brown skin of the dragon – horrendous and undoubtedly powerful. Harry could taste the stench of the black magic upon the creature – the magic of Lord Voldemort. The face was narrow and pointy, covered by the flesh of shadows. Two snakelike slits of eyes, crimson and opaque, was the only thing that broke the illusion of a living, contorted shadow. The wings were folded, but Harry could see their dark edges protruding from its back.

Now, Harry knew fear. _Intimately_. Had known it since he learned to understand the concept of basic human emotions. The Dursleys never laid hands on him – safe for Dudley, that was – but Harry had feared them nonetheless, feared their disgust of him. Ever since he was reintroduced to the wizarding world, he had known the fear of Voldemort better than any other.

Harry knew that fear could drive a man to the edge of reason, knew of its potential to distort, to motivate.

Harry stared at the dragon, motionless and rigid.

Voldemort's eyes stared back into Harry's eyes, into the windows of his soul, and Harry knew uninhibited fear once again.

 _How…?_

Harry was caught in a limbo of indecision.

Rodolphus Lestrange took notice of that as he came forth from where the dragon had just blasted through.

"Fear the might of the Dark Lord!" he screamed as he descended the carnage of Harry and the ruins of the dragon, barely taking notice of the dead Death Eaters scattered across the clearing. "Behold! The dragon has bent to the will of the Lord! _BEHOLD_!"

Well. Okay.

Harry, barely contemplating his actions, raised his wand, humming in a silent response to its master's spiking fear, and unleashed a discharge of excruciating force – a force of raw magic with which he could shatter the walls of the Ministry itself.

And watched with a rising feeling of panic as it bounced off the shadows of flesh harmlessly. Rejected.

Power alone would not be enough; he had to be precise. _Measured_.

Harry licked his dry lips, anxious like fucking hell; and though Rodolphus couldn't perceive the action, he still laughed like madness clung to his soul, raucous and never-ceasing. Harry was reminded of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"What is this type of magic?" Harry asked, for some part, a morbid and distant part, _was_ curious. "Dark magic, of course… but it almost seems… sentient…"

And painfully familiar.

 _White shafts of starlight and black, all-consuming shadows._

The dragon rumbled deep in its throat, an animalistic sound that vaguely resembled a grunt of impatience, though it didn't move to engage Harry in deadly combat. Its red eyes flickered to Rodolphus. Contemplating. Waiting.

The show of intelligence tethered onto Harry's fear, fuelling it.

Voldemort had done the impossible. It was… frighteningly tame.

Lestrange looked at the dragon, wistful, even with a measure – if Harry wasn't mistaken – of _envy_. "I wouldn't presume to know the extent of the Dark Lord's power," he said and narrowed his eyes. "Or brilliance. I certainly wouldn't dare questioning it." He shuddered, repulsed seemingly by the mere thought. "The Dark Lord's genius is unbound, unhindered by the self-righteous norms of a broken society people like you anchor yourself to."

Harry considered that look of wistfulness. A look that conveyed more than Lestrange would ever dare to voice aloud. It was not often Death Eaters showed any form of hostility to their master. Maybe there was some measure of truth to the rumours.

Maybe Voldemort had indeed knocked up Bellatrix Lestrange. The idea presented an image Harry was quick to banish from his head.

No. It was too fucked up to be reality.

And yet, Harry contemplated, stranger things had happened.

"Do you know…?" Rodolphus Lestrange voice grew distant, void of emotion, void of insanity. For a moment he appeared as sane as Harry was. Which might, when Harry really thought about it, not say much. "Do you know why, in the end, the Dark Lord will be victorious?"

It didn't escape Harry's notice the phrase he had used. Not _we_ will be victorious, but the _Dark Lord_ will be…

Harry shrugged, gaining a sense of peace in his mind by the conversation; the dragon was still there, ominous and crouched on hind legs, and Harry was still on his fucking guard. But for now, it seemed, the dragon was content to let its master and Harry talk.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Heard it all before. Voldemort is an immortal motherfucker," Harry said, then sighed and paused. He contemplated the question further, a rush of anger and frustration coursing though him. "He's a sadistic, sociopathic, narcissistic, monstrous, eh… retarded _tosser_!"

"It pleases you to diminish him, doesn't it? To perceive him as a lesser being?" Normally, Death Eaters were easy to get riled up. Normally, they'd just curse you or run. Speaking ill of Voldemort was always a sure way to get under their skin.

Not this time.

"He doesn't exactly make it _hard_ to perceive him that way," Harry said, almost whispered. "He _is_ a lesser being.

"Then you'll lose to a lesser being."

"No. I won't lose. I might die." Harry shrugged, indifferent. "But I won't lose."

The conviction in Harry's voice bore no argument, which meant that Rodolphus, naturally, didn't agree, didn't understand. How could he understand, not knowing the full extant of the Horcruxes or the connection between Harry and Voldemort?

How could anyone but Harry and Voldemort truly understand?

"Do you know why you'll, in the end, fail like everybody else before you," he said as if Harry hadn't spoken at all. "In the end, you have the same conscious fault. A fallacy in your moral righteousness. Which seem to be inherited by man to man – by wizard to wizard – you encompass the same deficiencies as all those that opposed the Dark Lord before you… you _care_ … you care so much you hurt."

"You don't know me."

"The Dark Lord knows of you. He takes you very, _very_ seriously… _Harry Potter_."

Rodolphus Lestrange's smirked was anything but genuine, and Harry didn't feel any surprise that Rodolphus somehow knew of his identity.

"He knows something is amiss, that you have grown. But, Potter, he knows your weaknesses. All your life – all your love, all your hate, all your kindness and tolerance and defiance and self-sacrifice. It's all the same thing to him. It's all the same weakness you keep exposing to him. The Dark Lord doesn't love anything, doesn't tolerate anything but his own beliefs – and what he hates usually has a very short life expectancy, you being the obvious exception. He has sacrificed his very _soul_ to achieve victory, to achieve immortality. Ask yourself this, Harry Potter, what would you sacrifice to accomplish what you desire most? Would you be willing to sacrifice your soul, your friends, or your body? What are you prepared to sacrifice?"

Harry didn't answer him, but knew that he would sacrifice pretty damn much if he could turn back the time, or raise the dead, or make Voldemort go away for good.

None of it seemed likely, however, and Harry kept his words of impossible dreams locked away in his head.

Lestrange smiled wryly. "Now, the Dark Lord mentioned that this dragon – with its enhancing enhancements – would be an adequate test of your burgeoning skills. Although he also predicted that in the end you'd prevail." He paused and a flicker of resigned amusement lighted his eyes in the terrible fate of ended lives. "He promised that this would be our last mission for him – not many of those you've slain tonight thought he meant it in the literally sense of the word." He shrugged; a ghost of a smirk curled his upper-lip. "The Dark Lord always possessed a uniquely wicked humour. Easily miss-interpreted."

"Wait, what! You've been waiting for me?" Harry asked. This time he felt genuine surprise. "You knew I was coming – and you knew I'd most likely kill you?"

"Yes."

"This wasn't for the dragons, was it? Not really. This was to lure me here?"

"Yes."

"Why…? Why come here at all, then? Knowing what you knew?"

"The Dark Lord demanded our presence here tonight," he said as if it was the clearest thing in the world. The hard edge of grand purpose flittered into his voice, as if he had upheld a duty sworn to a deity. "Of course we'd be here."

"So, you were willing to sacrifice yourself… for what? For nothing more than a test of my skills and power?" Harry murmured, his brow creasing. He couldn't fathom why they would go along with such a thing.

Lestrange ignored Harry and stepped over to one of the fallen trees. He sat down on the trunk like a man who had nowhere else he'd rather be – like a man possessed of some radical notion that he was suppose to die here, that he was born to die on this particular day, that he _wanted_ to die here.

To Harry, who understood the necessity of dying _right_ , it was uncanny.

"I think," he said, grandly spreading his arms out wide as if he'd engulf the world in his embrace, "it is time – once more after almost a decade of hiatus – to match the powers of Harry Potter… and _Lord_ _Voldemort_."

His mind flashed back to the Chamber of Secrets before he could control himself. Harry had a feeling it was the first – and _last_ – time Rodolphus Lestrange spoke the most dreaded name in the wizarding world. To his credit, his voice barely wavered.

Rodolphus gave a barely perceptible nod, and the dragon – which had so far acted like a well-mannered dog – snarled itself into a frenzied maelstrom of rage.

And then it was upon Harry.

Snarling and gurgling menacingly in its thick throat, it snapped its massive head at Harry and charged at him with impressive speed, considering the sheer size of the thing. Bat-like wings of blackness, filled with vast slabs of muscles, stretched out behind its scaly back, giving it an ethereal spectrum of darkness.

Pushed to the edge, Harry had done a lot of stupid shit over the years.

This was no different.

Harry whipped his wand up in a flickering motion hurriedly, and felt his magic drizzle out of his wand at his silent command. A dome of shimmering magic clung to the edges of his body, settling deliberately to his skin, and Harry braced himself for the collision.

The darkened, pointy-head of the dragon descended upon Harry and hit him squarely in the abdomen with an otherworldly strength.

There was an ominous _scream_ of thunder that shattered the air, accompanied by the terrible stillness of equal forces cancelling each other out in a stalemate.

But then the small flicks of snow, which had begun falling down from the trees as the dragon charged Harry, was blasted everywhere by the force of the impact, and Harry – the smallest, after all – _blasted_ away, unscarred and whole and yet soaked in a vortex of pure agony.

The magical protection on his skin died away as he soared through the air, gravity fighting to take hold of his body as he descended amongst the trees. The impact had hurt like all fucking hell, but he was alive, alive and _jolting_.

For now, he realized, as a wall of trees on the cusp of the clearing grew nearer with an astounding hurriedness. He heard the dragon roar in animalistic triumph behind him, and knew it looked bleak.

Lifting his wand above his head, as he laid horizontal in the air, contemplating for but a moment that he soared towards untold agony, towards certain death, Harry flicked it in an intricate manner on pure instinct. His mind cast about the half-remembered incantations and theories of different spells that he had laboriously forced himself to master over the years.

Harry heard Lestrange's shriek of sheer awe and incredulousness as he watched Harry, his form blurring with a powerful hotness, smack into the vast wall of immense trees, wand-tip first, and tear it asunder with a blast of pure concussive force. The power of his spell sent him bouncing back through the air, like a sphere of limbs. Tucking and rolling, splinters and branches crumbling around him, he skipped towards the dragon on the ground, terrible agony seizing his nerves, and stopped, knee-bound on one knee, with his wand outstretched menacingly towards the beast.

Fucking hell!

Harry, knowing desperate measures had been forced upon him, snarled and summoned every ounce of hatred and righteous bloodlust he could from his abused psychosis.

That wasn't hard, though, the hard part was focusing it, channelling it into a want to kill, a _need_ to cause death.

A memory of a memory descended upon him.

 _To harness the powers of death itself…_

 _The successful usage of the Killing Curse, Harry, is an admission of guilt by its simple implication of your state of mind. It is an admission of not only your willingness to kill, to murder without repentance, but to do so without anything but your enjoyment in the act of murder. The strain upon your mind can make your soul unravel. Not many can form the sheer apathy, the mind of anarchy, needed to empower the spell, and those that can are not fit company for much._

 _Even cold-hearted murderers have proven incapable of performing the spell._

Nathan had warned him against the Unforgivable Curses, specifically against the Killing Curse. Sometimes, when the choice was between the damage on your soul, or your very life… sometimes the only choice was a lesser evil.

Which one of them that was the lesser evil, living with a scarred soul or death, Harry did not know.

He thought of Ron, giggling and crying at the same time like two parts of him fought for supremacy, as he and Harry stared down on Hermione's lifeless body. Her adolescent breasts were lacerated and half-amputated by the Death Eater, Rodolphus Lestrange, she had been duelling moments before the two of them arrived. Huffs of air slipped out with the spouting blood that still coursed so warmly through her, but she was long gone. Long dead. Ron, though he clearly wasn't himself – the brains played tricks with his brain – had been horrified at his giggling reaction afterwards, and hadn't been himself after that.

Suicide had been easier than living with the guilt… with the knowledge…

The fate of Ron was enough alone to set his mind ablaze in a maelstrom of pure hatred.

" _AVADA KEDAVRA_!" Harry screamed against all the indifference in the world, all the corruption that allowed Death Eaters to thrive within the Ministry, all the hatred that tethered onto his own lacerated soul. His mind raved for justice, for gratification, for a sense of entitlement, for fucking life beyond these shadows he was forced to fester within.

The tip of his wand became alight with the green fire of death… and then sizzled out into nothingness.

Oh.

Shit.

 _Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?_ Bellatrix Lestrange's voice taunted from a string of broken memories. _You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain – to enjoy it – righteous anger won't hurt me for long – I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson-_

Harry wanted to cry against his own accursed _softness_.

Some part of him, he knew, should revel in his inability. Should celebrate the fact that he was still, after everything that had happened to him, unable to conjure the necessary enjoyment in the act of murder.

But they were at war – even if the Ministry of Magic still refused to acknowledge it – and Aurors of the first war against Voldemort had been able to perform the Killing Curse. Moody, though it later revealed to be a Death Eater imposter, had been able to perform the curse in front of a bunch of snotty teenagers in a fuckin' classroom.

Harry didn't suffer under the illusion that the real Moody wouldn't have been able to do it, too.

Dumbledore might have perceived it as strength of heart, although Harry really doubted it. The aged Headmaster was cooler than most dared to believe. But here, staring down a dragon ready to demolish him, Harry only felt a dull fire of acrid fear and wretched weakness.

"Eh…" Harry flashed the dragon an uncertain smile of mock-innocence. "You don't suppose you can just," -His smile turned savagely defiant an instant later- " _roll over and die_!"

Harry jabbed his wand, jarring himself into a series of movements, and white-hot flames belched out of his wand, moulding round the clearing.

"HAVE YOU GONE MAD! FIRE! REALLY?" Rodolphus Lestrange, Harry noted, dived out of the way with a scream of surprise, but that was all he saw of the man, for then the dragon drew back his full attention.

The dragon, obviously unafraid by the flames, spread its wings anew and ascended the air, soaring at Harry, opening its mouth, and belching a column of flames of its own, scorching earth and _burning_ the fuckin' air with immeasurable heat.

Harry slashed his wand across his body, panicky and hurriedly, and moulded the white flames to intercept, and they met in midcourse and the world was turned afire.

Blasted half a step back by the ensuring explosion of meeting forces, Harry heaved his wand to the side with immense effort, dragging a lance of the flames aside as he started running sideways across the battlefield. Careful not to stumble on any roots protruding from the ground, he flicked the thick rope of fire back against the dragon with a cruel motion of his wand.

A trunk of a fallen tree, not far from the one Lestrange hid behind, laid on the ground, and Harry threw himself behind the trunk as the dragon, despite the dark protection it was weaved in, howled with agony and rage.

Harry hazarded a look over the tree trunk, and noted with dark pleasure, as the fiendish flames of his curse licked away at the dark skin of the dragon, that he had indeed _scarred_ the dragon. Patches of blackness flickered, _shimmered_ , across its body and died away, leaving only the natural dark-brown scales of the dragons skin beneath.

Harry turned his head and beheld Rodolphus Lestrange. The Death Eater had re-seated himself unceremoniously on the same spot, attentively paying attention to the fight, waiting – as if there was nothing else he'd rather do – for Harry and the dragon to finish their quarrel.

The trees and grounds across the clearing seemed spelled to be insusceptible to the flames, as the grass caught fire, only to evaporated to mere air in a hush of magic. Which made sense, Harry guessed. If you had dragons caged somewhere, you'd make sure that nothing combustible was close by.

The dragon, shrieking and roaring madly, became a chaotic mess of destructive movements as it swirled its enormous tail around itself, lacerating trees like a warm knife through butter. Sniffing the air, it turned its head around at Harry, crimson eyes narrowed with intelligent perception. It shambled forward, drunkenly and yet efficiently, and opened its mouth and unleashed concentrated gouts of liquid flames.

It hit Harry, who raised his wand aloft hurriedly, squarely in the face, and all he knew was fire.

The fire licked away at his skin, tingling, even as the world around him melted away in shimmering, opaque auburn heat. The fire was too hot, too _fuckin'_ magically, and even the magical protection around the clearing struggled to hold back the flames. Trees burst aflame, flickers of dying magic rained down in a multi-coloured array of bursting charms and wards.

Everything became chaos. Chaos. And fire.

Harry sighed. He felt kind of flustered, sure, but otherwise find, although he was getting damn tired of this game. The Flame-Freezing Charm was doing its job, however, and Harry strode onwards through the flames, which coiled around his form. Like it dreaded to touch his skin.

" _DRAGON_!" Harry roared as he cleared out of the fire, a grin of pure psychosis on his face, for radical notions ate away at his mind – as they always did. "Please die…" Raising his wand before him, he jabbed it down towards the floor forcefully. The vast dragon was forced into the ground as Harry applied a coarse crust of pure pressure by his will alone. Precisely measured intention of his mind guiding it.

It struggled to rise, buckling and shambling, blood and hazy smoke of darkness oozing from its quivering wings. It roared in fiery defiance at Harry, gouts of fire belching from its mouth, only to be restrained and conquered by mere flicks of Harry's wand.

Harry was so fuckin' tired of this shite!

Arcs of silvery spells and jets of crimson curses burst forth from Harry's wand, gouging through flesh and darkness, whilst the dragon struggled pitifully, feebly, against its invisible chains. The crimson eyes _burned_ with malicious pleasure, taking the agony with something like obsessive glee. As if the Dark Lord travelled through the mind of the dragon to behold Harry, besieged – to the point where pain did not matter – by the thought of studying his foe again.

Maybe Voldemort just did not care. A likely possibility.

Two skeletal arms, trembling, reached for Harry with excruciating effort, begging for release in a silent act of defiance against that which controlled it. Shadows and lights chased each other along the skin, flailing magic that was dying as the dragon died at last under Harry's onslaught.

Harry, sweating and panting, cast his eyes in Rodolphus direction. He hadn't moved since he last checked, gazing at Harry as if he had all the time in the world.

What the fuck was wrong here? Something was terribly awry.

He turned back to the dragon, intent upon making sure it was well and truly dead, and spun his wand in large circles over his head. A sizzling stag of flames – resembling his Patronus – rode to life and pounced the creature, eating away at the crimson eyes with bites of fire, until the beast became quite still.

The crimson in the beast's eyes died away into the blindness of sterilized white.

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, and keeping a careful eye on Rodolphus – the man seemed non-threatening, but Harry took no chances – Harry began to put out the fires with his wand. Finally! A small measure of vengeance was within his reach.

Though the charms and wards put up by the Death Eaters had sustained through most of the fight, some trees had been scorched, and Harry couldn't have it spreading.

The bodies of the Death Eaters faired worse than the trees, though. Much worse.

Burned to pile of ash… ashes…

Harry chanced a look over his shoulder, wanting to see Rodolphus Lestrange's reaction, only to find a wand in the man's hand… and pointing at his own throat.

Harry blinked. "What the fuck!" He raised his wand anew, ready to unleash spells of disarming strength, to end whatever Lestrange was up to now.

"You know…" Lestrange grinned. His grin was of pure madness unbound. Harry was more than a touch disturbed by the casualness with which he held his wand against his own throat, as if he was ready to slice it over at any moment. "It is quite funny how fickle we are, isn't it, _Harry_ …? How odd occurrences in our lives can change us so radically that we are practically unrecognizable to friends or lovers of our former self… or even, perhaps, unrecognizable to our former selves. If they ever were to gaze upon us through a passage of time…"

Harry itched to the side, feeling like a witness to a train wreck about to happen. Wanting to see how it'd play out, and yet wanting to stop it at the same time…

"How would the friends you've lost perceive you now… using dark magic so readily, utilizing a ruthless efficiency while hating yourself so much you can barely breathe… barely move? Oh, the Dark Lord knows of your guilt – he finds it most amusing, at times. At times he wonders… perhaps, in the end, it will be yourself, and your torturous propensity for self-hatred… that will be your downfall." He shook his head, his rambled musings coming to an abrupt end as he stared at Harry with renewed clarity, as if a different person entirely seized control of his body. "Harry Potter, I beg of you! Save her! _Save her_!"

Harry blinked and beheld the deranged man with a wariness he could scarcely remember having felt before. Like something experienced in another life – or a memory of another life. He said nothing, and waited for what was to come next with guarded eyes.

"I need you to save her. You must save her! You _must_! She does not deserve this!" He was crying now, and Harry, for some reason, felt a surge of disgust flare within him, as if seeing the accursed Death Eater in tears was an abomination. "My daughter… the Dark Lord's daughter… AH!"

He tore at his own hair, ripping whole handfuls of it from his skull; he did not seem to notice the pain that must surely have followed.

"My squib daughter… she's unwell… Her mother…" His voice came in wild sobs of misery. Harry had never seen anything quite so fascinating. Suddenly, where they had once stood a Death Eater that had to be destroyed, now stood a pathetic person that he could hardly crave to kill as much as he had craved the last ten years… and Harry faltered…

"Her mother will kill her, given time," Rodolphus continued. "If you don't save her, Potter." He made an effort to compose himself, it seemed, steeling his resolve – even as the tip of his wand began to glow with a silvery light, fearsomely close to his throat. "Promise me! Promise me you'll save her! Only you can do it!"

"No."

Harry's uttered word was so soft he thought it a wonder Lestrange had actually heard it, but heard it he did.

"Wha-" He paused, staring with utter disbelief… then threw his head back and laughed, raucous and otherworldly in its psychosis, exposing his throat even further – not that he seemed to care about it.

"Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry Potter – _boy_ ," -Harry gritted his teeth in the face of his suddenly condescending tone- "truly a marvellous soul you possess. Such _defiance_! Such _strength_! We have stood here before, haven't we? _Burning_! And you shall stand here again, fighting defiantly in the face of unseen foes of the dark and unconquerable odds – and the world shall drown in the blood spilled by your _burning_ defiance. Born to defy, born to _vanquish_ …"

A coarse look of regret blossomed across his face. Harry didn't dare say anything, lest he would break the spell of lunacy and truth.

"Oh, Harry Potter, please save her – she's… she's the only good thing I ever brought into this world. Do not let her mother kill her, or even worse… _twist_ her. Save her…"

And then, like the whispered breath of thousands of Rodolphus Lestrange's, his voice echoed as his cutting curse sliced his own throat and ended his life in a spray of thick crimson blood.

 _Save her…_

 _Save her…_

 _Save her…_

His decapitated head tucked on the ground, rolling and rolling and forever rolling, and came to rest before Harry's feet, face askew and facing Harry with an almost lopsided look. Staring into Harry's eyes with vacant emptiness. There was a begging note in the edges of the dead eyes, like he, in dead, could see all the undecided intentions on Harry's face.

 _Save her…_

 _Save her…_

 _Save her…_

* * *

Harry apparated back to his apartment in the heart of London, sliding through his wards and protections unchallenged.

His living room was mostly barren. Harry had always been a person of few possessions and that hadn't changed when he grew into adulthood.

He sighed.

He was just so fucking tired of this day.

He wondered briefly – as he ran diagnostic charms over his apartment to check everything was as it should be – if he should send a Patronus Charm to Nathan and Dumbledore to inform them of his successful return to Britain. He decided against it; he wanted nothing more to do with this day.

When satisfied that he was indeed alone in his home, and that it had been undisturbed whilst he was gone, he relaxed marginally, although he still kept his wand clutched tightly in his hand.

"Fucking hell," he murmured, stepping across the small living room apathetically; it would, unfortunately, keep until morning. As was the way with such violent emotions.

He stepped up before the large window overlooking the street, sighing. For a moment, Harry just stood there, staring at the city, staring at nothing in particular. He breathed in the stale and cold air, before flicking his wand and summoning a goblet and a bottle of Firewhisky.

He needed a drink after the week he had had.

He swirled his wand, and the goblet stood in the air by itself, seemingly unconcerned with little things such as gravity, and waited patiently as the bottle of Firewhisky hovered beside it and poured him a glass.

Harry, motionless, stared out his window at the buildings on the opposite side of the street. In a window, some floors further down below Harry's floor, a little family of three – father, mother, and son, Harry imagined – were sitting together as the child unpacked different packages – gifts – with what Harry could only imagine was uncontrollable glee.

 _Oh… Christmas, right…_ Harry stared at the odd scene, not considering that it might be a private moment he shouldn't be looking at. His emerald green eyes were devoid of emotion. Detached.

He grasped his goblet from the air suddenly, harshly, then, now filled to the brim, flicked his wand to banish the bottle away, and knocked the whisky back in one swift swig. He reached into his coat, and drew out his very own Christmas present – courtesy of Rodolphus Lestrange.

A gleaming wand, pulsing faintly with odd magic, lay in the palm of his hand. A wand Harry felt he had won in battle, although suicide might be a debatable victory. It was, if he was right and by every law of magic that Harry was aware of, his wand now. He went to the only bookcase he owned, plain and black, that adorned his stark white wall. Reaching the top drawer of the bookcase, Harry pulled it open and beheld its contents.

A number of different wands met his eyes, and – with deliberate care – he placed the former wand of Rodolphus Lestrange amongst them, adding it to his ever-growing collection. He didn't know why he always took with him certain wands of his conquered foes. But it had become a habit, of sorts.

Giving the significant amount of wands a last, lingering look, he snapped the drawer shut and turned to his bedroom, intending to sleep until the New Year arrived.

"Merry fuckin' Christmas, Potter," he murmured at last into his pillow as he stored his wand beneath it, clutching it tightly, falling into a hellish sleep of nightmares.

* * *

 **End of Chapter**

Thanks to those who have read so far without running away screaming. That's it with the double Prologue; next Harry will talk to Dumbledore, and the character of Nathan Goodwill will be properly introduced. All chapters have been planned out, although some changes, if they suit the story or the characters, can be remade as I go along.

Again, thank you. Leave a review if you have any questions or words of appreciation. Everything is welcome, and will be appreciated. I think. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Have a nice day.


	3. Youthful Defiance and Aged Wisdom

**Nightmares and Meetings**

Harry Potter was dreaming.

By an unfaltering trust in his ability to defy, he approached the edges of the dream with the same awareness as he always did, with the illusory impression of control. He had seen this before. He had endured it time and time again with the certainty that it was unavoidable, that it was _unchangeable_. It would scream; it would rave; it would try to break him. And no matter how many times he came back, the end result proved the same. They died. He survived. Better to weather the storm, with the unbound strength of cynicism, than to get lost in the vortex of madness and grief. He would… endure.

Darkness seized him, coerced him into a frail act of submission, and _blackened_ his soul.

Voldemort was in a state of strong emotion. Triumph, perhaps? Harry couldn't tell, for his memories were afire. Plunging, uncontrollable, through fragments of what he used to be, Harry leaped for control, for a meaning to it all, for _himself_. Occlumency mattered little here – _fractured souls and essence divided_! – against the connection that had been forged between Harry and Voldemort on that faithful night.

They were bound together.

And he had always been a fuckwit at the Mind Arts anyway.

A being of immense strength siphoned through the cracks of his mind, settling onto his awareness with a clarity only accomplished in the hellish confinements of his nightmares.

Harry found himself sitting at the heart of a long and ornate table. He was alone, and all the chairs were pushed up against the walls. The room was half-murky, yet his eyes penetrated the dark with inhuman ease. There was a small flicker of illumination, the only source of light, coming from a blazing fire beneath a marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded mirror. He could see his pale, hairless reflection whenever his eyes flicked to the mirror, gleaming red eyes with vertical pupils shone back at him with elation. He was happy, but _why_?

He could not tell, which was strange indeed. Like his own thoughts were held out of his reach. There was something to be said about that, not knowing or understanding your own thought-process, something chilling.

Any minute now he would receive the news. There it was again. What fucking news?

A black door of Victorian handcraft stood at the end of the table, and it opened as he'd expected with a soft sigh of wind passing. A person entered the room. Soundless.

Harry tilted his head to regard the person coming to his side. The light of the fire cloaked the form in a dark silhouette, offering a feeble sort of clarity, but he knew _her_ well enough. Knew how she moved, knew the quickening of her breath as she beheld his magnificence…

Bellatrix Lestrange came into the light of the mantelpiece, within his shadow, gazing devotedly at Harry.

"My Lord," –she fell to her knees, and he felt a ghost of a smirk crease his lipless mouth, slits-like nostrils flaring in pure satisfaction- "it is done. We just received his message." A flicker of distain flittered through her eyes, he noted. How well he knew her to perceive such a subtle look… "You can seek his counsel, my Lord."

"Good. Very good." Harry felt himself nod slowly, and he tried not to fight the motion, lest he would be discovered. His thin, pale fingers caressed a wand lovingly betwixt his fingers. This was good, Voldemort thought – for some reason Harry did not know. It would give him ample of time to… _What_? Come on, fucker! Show your thoughts! "I must seek to uncover the past, my dear – time is, as always, on my side… _Yes_ … this is most excellent."

His voice was high-pitched and clear, entirely unnatural, and inexplicably dangerous. Harry felt himself shiver in his bed, which was far, far away from Voldemort and yet seemed right on top of him… inside of him. Ah, fuck… He felt befuddled, out of sense with the complexity and imperfection of being a _self_ , a one-entity.

"My Lord doesn't need the guidance of anyone!" Bellatrix hissed, for it seemed she couldn't help it, bowing her head in submission to Harry. A flare of sheer pleasure rose within him at the sight, and at the words. "His genius… No other man can compare to the brilliance of his mind."

"Your devotion to Lord Voldemort is, of course, untarnished and inspiring, Bella," said Harry. He rose to his feet, melting away Bellatrix presence with his sheer oppressiveness. "But on this matter, I fear, I must speak with a man, who possesses a little more… _intimate_ knowledge of the past." An ugly tint of dark amusement coloured his voice, as if he had revealed something subtle and funny. Neither Harry nor Bellatrix seemed to understand.

Bellatrix quivered. Literally. The edges of her lips twitched, like she herself did not know which mask of emotion to wear. "Is this about the boy? _Potter_!" she spat his name like the pronouncement alone could infect her with cancer. Her violet eyes went wide and mad. _Wild_. "Let me take care of him for you, my Lord! Let me tear him… let me… let me _skin_ him… I shall shade, in his blood, the hope of-"

"Do you suggest… that you possess powers that I, Lord Voldemort, do not?" Harry said, and Bellatrix flinched as if hit by a mortal blow. His voice had grown softer than the falling of snow, yet as deadly as an avalanche. "Do you believe me incapable of defeating the boy?"

"NO!" Bellatrix shrieked, and a morbid sense of fascination came over Harry; there was something deeply disturbing, yet also deeply enthralling about the quick paleness of unbridled fear, as blood surged away in dread. "No, of course not, my Lord! I only meant that he was beneath your powers… unworthy of-"

"Silence." Voldemort held up his hand, and Bellatrix fell silent instantly. Grateful, it seemed, to be interrupted. Pity. "I must be the one to kill Harry Potter. Let me not hear of your treacherous desires in this matter again."

Bellatrix nodded vehemently – with relief. "Of course, my Lord, of course."

Voldemort nodded, satisfied, and continued, "No. Potter's acts of defiance in the last few months have weakened us, I admit. But it is only a temporary disease to a larger problem. We have already taken steps to gain back the men we have lost; and all the crucial members of the inner circle have taken the necessary steps to ensure their future safety. Potter will find that striking against me will be much harder from now on."

Harry paused, musing to himself about the boy, anger rushing through his blood. Perhaps Harry Potter had become a worthy adversary, after all; truly, the beginning of the prophecy had hinted as much. But this wasn't just about the boy. This was an _older_ problem. And with that problem solved, Harry Potter would be a much easier target, for they found strength in each other.

He was about to take the first step to ensure a solution. France would be his next destination.

"For the boy to die – we need to kill that which guides him, that which nourishes him with strength. Dumbledore must be destroyed."

Harry's scar – a continuous throbbing which had mounted steadily, unchallenged, as the connection grew longer and deeper – became alight with blinding agony; hellish fires scorching his battered sanity – and Harry snapped awake amidst the sound of his own screaming.

Fucking hell!

Harry, adjusting to the feeling of having throbbing limps and a burning scar, panted with exhaustion. There was a dull promise of an oncoming insomnia behind his eyes, a steady throb of blood rushing too fast throughout his head. He could still feel the tint of Voldemort upon his brain, fetid and opaque, as it slithered about on the edges of his thoughts.

His eyelids were still closed, heavy and thick, and he feared the light that might greet him. His battered head wouldn't take well to brilliant sunlight in his eyes right now, when everything seemed to _hurt and bleed_.

Harry made a sensory check of his body, coming up with a couple of minor issues.

Breathing hurt like all fuckin' hell. The left side of his body seemed alit with fire, burning up the side of his abdomen and chest. His chest felt heavy and constricted, like there was a barbell of immense weight upon him.

Maybe he should have let him be checked out by Poppy, after all, before calling it a night. Ah, he thought, she'd just worry too much. She always did.

The connection between Harry and Voldemort had never been this deep, this _raw_. At least, it hadn't felt like that in the last decade. Voldemort wasn't safeguarding his mind as he once did, as if he didn't fear the harm of Harry's love anymore.

What was that saying? Did he possess a sense of security in his own position now? Had he gained some insight? Crazy thoughts ran through Harry's head at the implications. Voldemort had found another way to overcome the power of love. He had found an old artefact of untold power. He had at last found solace in the light of true love.

And those were some of the more reasonable ones.

Stop. Harry forced himself to slow down and observe what he knew. Harry knew from Dumbledore (who knew from Snape, he supposed) that Voldemort still made regular check-ups on his Horcruxes – of the ones they knew of, at least. As would any man with torn pieces of his souls lying around, he supposed.

"Nothing more precious," Harry murmured, thoughts running slow, like someone had put a stopper upon his train of thoughts. His mounting headache only grew worse with every breath, battering against his skull.

All of this, Harry reasoned, meant that Voldemort still feared for his safety, for his immortality. That, however, hadn't seem to lay so heavy on his mind the last decade that he thought himself cornered, forced into action, as he apparently felt now.

So, what had changed?

The answer was obvious; Harry was the one who had changed. The one who now forced Voldemort to actually do something. Except, that wasn't quite right, either. Harry had killed a couple of Death Eaters and put a stopper on a couple of Voldemort's operations, but he had hardly seemed worried about the fact.

Voldemort would seek the counsel of someone in France, it seemed. France had something to do with it… What was there to be gained in France, concerning the past, that could not be found in Britain?

Thunder screamed ominously from the world, and something sharp shifted on the naked skin of his chest, tightening until Harry thought he felt it drawing blood. Up until now, in his state of confusion and notions of dual-beings running wild and _true_ in his head, Harry hadn't noticed that the heaviness upon his chest was actually the legitimate body of another being.

Someone stood atop him!

Tensing his mind for a fight, as his body remained calm, motionless, magic coiling to match the violent force of his intent, he snapped his eyes wide open and beheld…

Hedwig chortled, high-pitched, ruffling her feathers, gazing down at him with big, animalistic amber eyes. Mere inches from his face.

Harry blinked and gave a startled grunt. She was so damn close! Sitting up quickly, adrenaline mounting like the blazing of drugs, exposing his half-naked body, bloodied and pale, and sending Hedwig flying off him, he shivered as the cool air of the night hit his skin. The rush of pure adrenaline left his body with his quick intakes of breath, leaving him slightly cold. Alone.

Hedwig, hooting disgruntled, swung around and landed gracefully in his hair.

He blinked, bleary-eyed and confused as fuck, against the darkness. It was night, stars twinkled and shuddered through his muddied window, and Harry counted himself lucky that he needn't adjust to the brightness of the sun.

His bedroom was of simple design, made for the barest of necessities. He had a king sized bed of dark wood and white, silky sheets. A small black drawer stood by his bed on the right side, surmounted by a small mirror, which was shaped and sculptured to encompass his face, and only his face. On his left, the side he slept on, was his bedside table, on which his dented pocket watch laid. Before him, on the wall by the foot of the bed, was the only window of his bedroom; elliptical and small, it offered a meagre view of London if you, being of the same height as Harry, stood before it on your toes.

Harry had the skill, although not the inclination, to magically enlarge the size of the room.

It was small and, not counting the silky sheets, cheap; it was just the way Harry liked it. Maybe it had something to do with growing up in a cupboard. A kind of Stockholm Syndrome or some other such shit.

He checked the time on the gold pocket watch and sighed. It was early. Fucking early. Barely slept, really. The watch was an old gift from Dumbledore. And that was as far as Harry would dwell on _that_.

Hedwig moved about on his head, snapping its beak with what sounded like grand amusement.

"If you shit on me, I'll curse your ass shut," Harry said, almost whispered, with the eloquence of a drunken poet. Although the violence of his words seemed harsh, they lost their edge as a soft note of fondness coloured them.

Voldemort was at large again.

Harry sighed. At once his rough articulation of fondness, along with the feeling it brought about, seeped out of him. An emotion of desperation, not unlike fear, laid claim upon him.

Had Voldemort felt him invading his mind? It hadn't seemed like it, but Harry wasn't really in control of things back there. Absentmindedly, he noted Hedwig taking flight and perching herself in the alcove of the window.

Voldemort was on the rise again. Of that there could be no doubt.

Harry sighed. No matter. He had to talk to Dumbledore, he supposed.

A prickling sensation demanded his immediate attention on his chest, and Harry cast his eyes downwards obediently. Raw patterns of crisscrossing red lines covered his firm, white chest, drops of blood seeping out here and there, to run down his abdomen.

Harry blinked, casting his eyes up to the bird again. "Eh… you were worried?"

The blasted bird only gave a hoot of unhappiness, clearly worried. No matter.

No fucking matter.

Rising from his bed, spilling blood on his covers, he grabbed his wand underneath his pillow. As he hopped out of bed, flicking his wand twice, the smears of blood disappeared and the covers wriggled and tucked themselves in, leaving his bed in immaculate shape. Another sharp flick saw the scratches upon his chest knitted together, leaving small tingles and a pink imprint that would fade in a couple of hours, and then he turned towards the bathroom adorning his bedroom.

Whilst beneath the shower, aches of last night's bout with the Death Eaters and the dragon leaving his body, he contemplated his next course of action. His first order of business would be to seek Dumbledore. Surely, the man wouldn't mind being woken up during the middle of the night.

He had things to report, after all. And Voldemort wasn't even on the top of his to-do list.

Ten minutes later, after letting Hedwig out for the day, he left his apartment.

Casting his eyes up and down the floor, making sure he was alone, he drew his wand and leeched a small fragment of magic into his wand. For a moment, magic pulsed softly like a current of electricity, and his protection spells across the apartment were yanked out of non-existence. Harry nodded, satisfied, as he prod his wand at the door experimentally. Dark grey wisps sparked to life for a moment before vanishing. Should someone try to breach the threshold of his home whilst he was gone, and not have a standing invitation, they'd be in for one _helluva_ surprise.

Apparating to the cusp of Hogwarts, he stopped and stared, as he always did, at the magnificent castle, with a bright ocean of stars acting as a backdrop. The moon seemed half-skewed into one of the larger turrets of the castle, luminously casting a sheet of light over the top of Hogwarts.

Harry was horrified to feel tears in the back of his eyes, clenching them down with a burst of self-loathing.

He strode for the entrance to the magnificent castle. The trip across the grounds was as always long and bittersweet during these winter months, and provided Harry with ample of time to think on his current predicament.

The hellish dreams and the vision of Voldemort had taken his mind off the very thing that haunted him the most. Now, however, with the headache dwindling and his thoughts running on normal speed once more, Harry once more considered the girl. The girl…

Rodolphus Lestrange had laid claim upon his attention; and his daughter presented Harry with a dilemma. On one side, he knew he didn't have the time to run around saving every child who suffered. It was the inescapable fate of all life, to suffer. And he knew that any kind of obsession would only distract him from the real problems of his life.

He just couldn't let it go. The deceitful voice of the past whispered to him, whispered to him from afar.

The little girl of Bellatrix Lestrange was too small and too vulnerable. Her father, Rodolphus – a known Death Eater of the coldest blood imaginable – had _begged_ him in his madness and – _love_? – to save his only child. If the child really had been born a squib, then Harry didn't dare contemplate the kind of hardships she must have endured in the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange.

There was a strange feeling of chaotic emotions within him. He wanted more than anything to go and rescue the little girl from her treacherous life. And then there was his desire to see Rodolphus suffer – even in death – for the evils he had committed in Voldemort's name, to extract a morbid sense of vengeance upon the wretched man. For Hermione.

Harry sighed. There was really no choice. Not when it came really down to it. She was young and innocent, and she _mattered_. And Hermione was dead, the dead didn't care for such mortal notions as vengeance; it would be an entirely selfish act on Harry's behalf.

The cold wind of Christmas rustled his dark wool coat, and Harry trailed his wand over his form, casting a heating charm almost absentmindedly, which coated his skin in pleasurable warmth. Staring at his wand, caressing it, he allowed a soft smile to graze his features as he felt it throb with strength.

The double doors to the entrance of Hogwarts slipped open before him as he approached. An icy feeling, which had nothing to do with the weather, settled about his abdomen, but he ignored the assault on his resolve as he reached the cobble-stoned pathway. Yet here he paused, motionless, and cast his eyes over his shoulder, gazing at nothing in particular – gazing at _memories_.

Whenever he visited Hogwarts, which wasn't all that often, his memories always got the best of him. Bittersweet remembrance embraced his heart and clung onto it like an illness, for it was an illness. A _curse_.

His face showed none of the strain his mind suffered, his eyes were narrowed, hard and detached, as if he was merely panning out the grounds of Hogwarts, looking for foes lurking in the shadows. He could see the lake, reflecting the dark sky like a broken mirror, distorted, and the starlight that twinkled down from the heavens. He could see the Forbidden Forest, and the urge to run to it and explore like he and Ron had so frequently done in his youth suddenly seized him unawares. Only with supreme strength of mind did he manage to overwhelm his childish, meaningless urges.

His purpose here, first and foremost, was to rescue a little girl from her terrible fate. A fate no child deserved. Whether he'd have anyone backing him up or not remained to be seen.

The doors creaked forebodingly in the wind as Harry approached them, stepping onto the threshold of Hogwarts, feeling the ancient magic of the castle. It wasn't a welcoming present. Not anymore. Though it didn't banish him, he had the feeling the castle didn't hold any fondness for him, either. Was it because he wasn't a student anymore? Did all those with the talent to perceive magic as he, when they had long since left Hogwarts behind, feel as he felt now?

Maybe it was because he never finished his education, his nature foreign to most others.

He let the thought go and stepped onwards. Although the magic of Hogwarts didn't provide him with the same sense of warmth, of adventures and friendships, he still felt confident enough to step inside.

She had, after all, spread her doors willingly for him.

"Wait," Harry said, frowning at something in the dark. "Was that a sex joke?"

"What was that, Harry?"

Harry's features, by instinct, became slightly guarded as he heard the sound of the familiar voice. Of course he'd be waiting for him in the middle of the night. Professor Albus Dumbledore stood in the darkness of the Entrance Hall, on the cusp of the marble staircase that led to the upper floors. He stood there like a man who had stood there waiting for Harry all night.

Harry suppressed an involuntary shudder. Dumbledore's omniscience was as uncanny as fucking ever.

"What was that, Harry?" Dumbledore repeated, stepping forth, a small twinkle of wry amusement in his eyes.

"Nothing," Harry replied, a touch sourly, flicking his wand at the torches adorning the walls. They lit up, and Harry got his first good look at the Headmaster. "Nothing at all."

He was cloaked in vibrant purple robes, and for a second Harry's mind fell back to Norway and the Northern Lights. Bright stars moved about leisurely on his robes, like shooting stars slowed down to a perceivable level. His beard, grey and frivolous, hung tied into his yellow belt. Blue, piercing eyes gazed at Harry above half-moon glasses; they revealed nothing of the mind within, yet Harry felt very naked suddenly. Like all his secrets were laid bare in the wake of that stare – and it had nothing to do with Legilimency. He might be a fuckwit in the Mind Arts, but he would detect, if not stop, the lesser breaches upon his mind.

Probably. Ah, well… who knew with Dumbledore, right?

"Shall we?" Dumbledore asked at last, voice merry and eyes twinkling, as he motioned for the way. "These parts of the castle can be most dreadful this time at night. Not much happening here, I'm afraid – though I did hear that McGonagall caught a certain miss Hephun here the other night, in the company of…"

"Yeah." Harry nodded, tight-lipped and composed again. "Your office. Let's go."

If Dumbledore was displeased at being interrupted, he didn't show it. With another motion of his hand, he led Harry through the corridors of Hogwarts.

"I must admit," Dumbledore said after a couple of moments spent in silence, and his voice had lost the edge of humour, "I am most happy to see you alive and well, Harry. When you failed to deliver your report to poor Nathan last night, he became most worried for your safety. As did I, I admit. You gave us quite a fright yesterday."

"Yeah," Harry replied, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. Had there always been a heart-shaped mark on the web of skin between the edge of his hand and his wrist? Oh, yeah. The jagged scar, like a torn leaf. "The situation got complicated. I chose to rely on my instincts."

"I see." Dumbledore nodded his understanding, but said nothing further on the matter, and Harry knew the inevitable collision had only been temporarily postponed.

The castle unfolded before them, torches becoming alit by the mere presence of Dumbledore. Ghost hovered on the raw edges of the shadows, claiming the night. More than one gave a respectful nod of greetings to the aged Headmaster and a curious, if not slightly frightful, look to Harry, who had hidden his face beneath charms of concealments once more.

" _A wraith_?"

" _No. It was a Dementor_!"

" _Don't be silly, girl. Dumbledore wouldn't be walking with a Dementor through the corridors of the school! And we all know Dementors do not walk_! _They float_!"

" _Oh, and wraiths do_?"

"Still as overflowing with rumours, I see," said Harry, disdainful.

"Still as paranoid, I see," Dumbledore said, jovial, and seemed to notice Harry's dark wool coat bellowing round the hem of his trousers, as wry amusement coloured his voice. "You do resemble a Dementor in that ensemble of dark clothing, I must say."

"You must?"

His gaze flittered to Harry's face, and Harry had a distant thought, coming from far away in his mind, that Dumbledore could see right through his concealments. "Alastor would approve, I daresay," he said.

"How is that old bugger, anyway?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.

"The same as ever, I imagine, enjoying retirement." Dumbledore paused, smiling a sad little smile tint with acceptance. "By chasing Death Eaters and allies of Lord Voldemort. Truly, sometimes I do worry for my old friend."

"And his trainee… eh, what was her name again?"

"Nymphadora Tonks." Voice merry and mischievous, Dumbledore gazed at Harry from the corner of his eye as they walked. "As you know. Although it's been seven years since she was his trainee. You really ought to get out into the world more – might learn a thing or two. And to answer your unspoken question, she's alive and well also."

"Eh, I am a dead man, remember?" Harry narrowed his eyes, gazing at Dumbledore with a ghost of smirk curling his lips. "She single?"

"She is, I believe, indeed available." Dumbledore nodded with age-old patience bleeding into his features, guarded yet amused. "Although I daresay you will accomplish nothing on that end when all you do is stare from a great distance. The matters of the hearts need the willingness to act to thrive properly."

"Eh, not interested," Harry said, brushing off the not-so-subtle advice. "And I don't stare. I _observe_."

Dumbledore frowned, face gnarled by the touch of time. "Why not? Too old?"

Harry grinned, with a rakish sort of charm. "Too single. Makes things rather complicated, even at the best of times, you know?"

"Ah." Dumbledore looked to be in thought, gazing at Harry from the corner of his eye. "I'm not supposed to approve, am I?"

"I've no idea what you mean."

The walls of Hogwarts had always been known to have ears, and they strayed off the more dangerous topics for now. Topics of dark wizards, of Voldemort, and of secrets that could bring about an end to the war before it ever began. An end, that was, in a most unfavourable light.

The knowledge of the Horcruxes was a dangerous one. Only three wizards in the world, as far as Harry knew, had any knowledge about them. Harry'd liked it to stay that way.

Dumbledore stopped and Harry realized they stood before the entrance to the Headmaster's office. He muttered the password to the gargoyle and it moved aside, leaving Harry and Dumbledore to move onto the twisting staircase leading up.

Once inside Dumbledore's office, they found themselves sitting around the Headmaster's desk. The silence was heavy, at least to Harry. To distract himself from it, he looked around with idle curiosity, although it didn't last long, for the changes within the office were scant and insignificant. Really, for an office littered with such a vast amount of artefacts, it was precious few that stood out and truly revealed some intimate knowledge of the old wizard.

No picture of his brother. Of his deceased sister. Nothing. No small detail of his past life before his defeat of Grindelwald, or any indication of his life here at Hogwarts. Completely impersonal, and yet very immaculate. Harry wondered if it was a conscious choice, then immediately scoffed at the thought, for of course it was.

Seconds passed, and Dumbledore seemed in no hurry to move things along, staring contentedly at Harry with keen interest.

Harry exhaled deeply, loudly. Aggravated. "I suppose you're interest in why I am here?"

"Quite." Dumbledore nodded.

"What happened yesterday?" Harry continued. "Oh, and merry Christmas by the way. Sorry for the no present thing. I was indisposed, you could say."

"Noted. I am most curious," said Dumbledore, "why twenty-eight wizards of British descent found their way, quite dead, I must add, to the Ministry for Magic in Norway just a few hours ago." Dumbledore had lost any pretence of benignity, his face becoming an unreadable mask. "Indeed, I am equally curious as to how they ended up in such a state, when I heard from Nathan that you were strictly told _not_ … to engage."

The familiarity and warmth Dumbledore had showed during their walk through Hogwarts had dissolved the moment they stepped into the anonymity of his office. For a moment, Harry's face was caught in a peculiar blend of a flinch and a look of defiance.

Harry shrugged coolly, finding apathy quickly. "I acted on instinct. Oh, and I thought that twenty-something-less Death Eaters in the world might be a good thing. I had to act."

"No. You _chose_ to. There is a small, albeit perfectly perceptible difference between the two." Dumbledore sighed. "And for once, I'd really hoped you wouldn't. Lucius will use this to sway the public's favour in his way. Against us – specifically you."

Harry scoffed, casting aside the idea. "I've been dead for ten years. Can't blame recent deaths on someone already dead. And how do you even know that? You haven't suddenly become best friends with the man." He paused, and blinked. "Wait, have you?"

"I assure you, Harry, contrary to what it might look like, I do usually take better company than Lucius Malfoy," Dumbledore replied, a touch dryly. Harry frowned, but let the insult at his character pass.

Dumbledore sighed, obviously bothered by Harry's indifference, and gestured to a discarded paper lying on the edge of his desk. "I simply read the papers. Now, this is all in the past, thus there is nothing to do for it. Did you learn anything whilst in Norway? Is it as we feared?"

Harry nodded, his eyes fixated on the paper. "Voldemort is recruiting dragons. With success."

Dumbledore breathed a heavy sigh, years bleeding onto his face. "Succeeding, you say?"

"Yeah, mind control. I guess." Harry half-laughed at the enormity of what he was saying, what he had seen. "Oh, and they had some sort of armour, too. Black magic. Real nasty."

"Mind control," said Dumbledore, a tad disturbed by the look of it. "As in binding them to his will? Brilliant. Disturbing, but brilliant. I wonder how he does it? Not the Imperius Curse, surely."

"I think not." Harry brought his wand to his temple and, after careful focus, drew the memory of the dragon straight out of his mind, formed like a wisp of fragile pale light. He twirled it on the tip, careless, then _threw_ it to Dumbledore who, used to this callous treatment of precious memories, had his wand ready and caught it with ease. "Take a look for yourself."

Five minutes spent in aloneness later, Dumbledore sat before Harry again, pensive and deep in thought. If not for knowing exactly whom he was sitting before, Harry would have thought Dumbledore seemed to be disturbed.

"Well?" Harry queried, impatience touching his eyes. "Your thoughts."

"I have no idea," he said, and somehow managed to sound delighted at the notion.

Harry nodded, dead-panned. "Fucking awesome."

"Suffice to say, it is crude magic. Very crude. Very experimental, as well. No form of finesse or subtlety that you'll find in some of Voldemort's finest work. This, I think, was his first attempt at real control – a success he can build upon. We haven't seen the last of this…"

"The last part was the truly insane part, though," Harry said, changing the subject and leaning forward. "Lestrange killed himself, slit his own throat."

"Desperate man," Dumbledore agreed with a nod. "I guess his daughter's fate forced him to reconcile with the nature of his atrocities, although the sentiment holds no value at this time."

Harry sat, motionless and _maskless_ , and tried not to fidget on his seat, thinking about what to do and what not to do. Then he nodded to himself, standing on the firm side of going directly to the point.

"I want to save her."

Dumbledore sighed with the air of a man who had seen it all coming a mile away. "As do I. Believe me, Harry, as do I."

Harry, too, sighed with the air of a man who had seen it coming. "But you'd advice against it. _Order_ against it…" he said. "May I ask why?"

Dumbledore nodded. "You may." The humour died quickly in the face of Harry's unyielding expression of impatience. The aged Headmaster sighed. "We have too much going on, too much resting upon the fickle whims of chance. Rumours has it that Voldemort is on the rise again, gathering follows, gathering a great many unconventional allies, it seems by your own witness. We have located four Horcruxes, but are no closer to the last three than we were four years ago. And even if we could find the time to rescue her, how would you do it? Undoubtedly, she is with her mother, Bellatrix Lestrange, in the Malfoy Manor. How would you get in?"

"Well, I've thought about it a lot," Harry said, pretending to be sincere. He didn't like being questioned when he was treading such fickle grounds. "You know, should I take the backdoor or the front door? Back or front? Back or front? I think I decided upon front, though. Seems the most fair, you know."

"I am sure they will appreciate your fairness greatly." Dumbledore said, as dryly as Harry, then he shook his head and addressed the issue, "It is not that simple. Death Eaters, dark wizards in general, are very keen in the arts of self-preservation."

Harry nodded, tight-lipped. "No idea what you mean."

"It means that the recent strings of killings, killings of Death Eaters, has gained their attention," Dumbledore said, almost matter-of-factly. Dumbledore never spoke that way to Harry, using that tone of voice. It was this more than anything else that drove home to Harry just how stressed the man truly was. "Your assassinations of Death Eaters has left the rest of them in a constant state of fear and suspicion. Lucius Malfoy sought permission to erect the Fidelius Charm upon the Malfoy Manor three days ago. Naturally, Fudge saw no reason to deny his request. It is, as you know, untraceable to everyone save Lucius himself, and all those he choose to share the secret with."

"Well, that was not unforeseeable, was it?" Harry said mildly, but his face became contorted with streaks of rage. "Shit, shit, shit!" Breathe. _Breathe_ … With effort, he managed to find a semblance of serenity. "Well. Okay. I didn't know that."

"Which happens when you run around the world. You lose sight of what happens right in front of you."

"You sent me there." Harry blinked. "Well, Nathan sent me there. Never mind." He ran a hand through his short hair; not missing the worried look the Headmaster sent him. "Look, we just have to overcome the Fidelius Charm, then."

"I admire your tenacity, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Truly, I do. But this is a fight you cannot win, a girl you cannot save, and a situation you cannot solve. The girl's fate was sealed the moment she was born without magic. If there's one thing Bellatrix truly dreads, it is failing her master. If there is one thing Voldemort truly despises, it is weakness. To be born… without magic… is the essence of weakness for Voldemort. If she's not dead – which I dearly hope, for her sake – then she will have been tormented, her soul broken to beyond repair, her spirit torn asunder… all of this will leave behind a mere shell of a girl."

"I have to try!" Harry whispered. A delicate piece of glass rattled on the brink of ruin, and there was a palpable charge of electricity-like energy sizzling the air. "I have to fucking _try_!"

"Don't you think that, perhaps, it is your past experiences that… drives you towards this?" He leaned forward, his eyes truly worried now. "That what you feel compelled to do, a fallacy at heart, is fuelled by your guilt and prison of mind."

"Don't. Use that… Against me," Harry said, his voice paper-thin. The charge of electricity grew unforgettable, impossible to ignore. " _Ever_!"

A tension settled onto the heart of the room, clung to them like a contagious disease. Harry, closing his eyes, tried to find some semblance of control. The electricity in the air evaporated, almost measuredly, as Harry calmed himself.

"No. I implore you to stand down, Harry," Dumbledore said. "This path will bring you nothing but pain and suffering. And I don't want anymore of that for you. Not when it is avoidable as this is."

Dumbledore paused and stood, reaching for Fawkes and patting the Phoenix in a soothing manner. Fawkes crooned with soft pleasure. The gaunt look of old age dissolved a little on the ancient wizard's face, as the gentle tone of Phoenix song filled the room. Harry, far from being comforted as he once did by the song, as Dumbledore did, felt icy lances of panic smote his soul.

He shivered.

"I beg of you, my dear boy," Dumbledore said at last, "do not pursue this. Persevere! You must stay strong – have the courage to see the bigger picture. Lord Voldemort preys upon fools such as us, who answer to the emotions of our hearts. If the girl is alive, it is merely so that you will come running. He knows you, Harry."

Harry, seeing defeat in the unbreakable resolve of Albus Dumbledore, rolled his eyes and nodded at last. "All right, all right." He was about to say something along the lines of _'I'll let it go'_ , but fell it might be overselling it a bit. "So, what do you need me to do?"

Dumbledore, eyes narrowing the slightest bit, peered at Harry over his half-moon glasses. The moment drew out, but Harry refused to look away, arching his eyebrow challengingly. At last, Dumbledore sighed and leaned back, face unreadable – and resigned.

"I'll look into the Lestrange girl, Harry," Dumbledore promised. "For now, however, I must ask of you to remain unseen for the next couple of days. Cease your assault on the Death Eaters – I've cleared it with Nathan Goodwill, and he agrees that we need to let the whole situation calm down naturally." Dumbledore weaved his hands together and gazed at Harry a touch sternly. "If I choose to enact a rescue mission for the girl, a team of wizards and witches of my choosing will accompany you, until then I expect you to remain out of sight. You know of your importance when Voldemort reveals himself."

"What?" Harry thundered in a soft voice, eyes suddenly livid with green fire. "When Voldemort reveals himself!"

"On these matters I must insist, Harry," Dumbledore replied, truly sternly this time. "It won't be long now."

"You must?" Harry said, voice cold. He stood, banishing his chair with a wave of his wand. "Anything else?"

Saddened blue eyes gazed at Harry, regretful and worn. Dumbledore murmured something softly, but Harry had already turned and stalked out of the office.

When he reached the threshold of the office, he turned back. His dream, in all the excitement, had almost escaped his mind. "By the way, I had a dream tonight."

"A relapse?" Dumbledore queried softly, his face showing a sudden urgency, though there was no note of judgmental disapproval. "Did you not clear your mind before going to sleep?"

"Well… ah, it slipped my mind last night."

Dumbledore furrowed his brow. "Last night?"

"Okay, the last couple of months. But I thought I, at last, had it down so that it became an unconscious effort. You know, something in the back of my mind."

"That kind of control can require a lifetime of practice, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Not something you'd accomplish overnight. What did you see?"

"Well, not a whole much," Harry admitted. "His thoughts seemed to suggest that he'd be going to look for something in France. Looking for someone who knows something of the past – knows how to kill you, he implied."

He wanted to jump up and ask for Dumbledore to make sense of it. He wanted Dumbledore to carry the burden of his responsibility, to take away his dread and give a cohesive narrative of what Voldemort was up to. He wanted Dumbledore to mastermind, as he had always done, what Harry ought to do next.

But in that need for the old man, he also found a blatant dislike for him, and for the weakness of his own heart.

"Alas, it was unavoidable, I suppose." Dumbledore's face remained serene, relaxed, as if Voldemort was merely an inconvenience; Harry disliked that aloofness, too. But he hated the feeling of not-knowing that settled within him when Dumbledore showed no sign to indulge Harry in what he seemed to know.

Fuck that. Harry wasn't going to ask.

He turned and left without another word.

He had a girl to save.

* * *

 **Guest** : Thank you for your review and your thoughts.

I quite agree that nihilism wouldn't carry the story for long, and it wasn't meant to. It's a quirk, if you will, about the Harry in this story that I thought made sense given his past and his knowledge (which will be revealed as the story goes on).

As for where the story will go, I won't say much, but there is the overall plot of Harry and Dumbledore against Voldemort. There is the connection between Voldemort and Harry, which - if I don't manage to fuck it up - I'd like to explore more, along with Voldemort's character.

 **vincentanthedoctor** : Thank you for your review. There will be more of that - much more! - the further we get into the story.


	4. Empire of Forsaken Angels

**Chapter Four of The Unspeakable**

 **Empire of Forsaken Angels**

London. A soft glimmer of snow drizzled down from the purpling early morning sky. Opaque patches of smouldering grey clouds, which odourless nature stained the stale and cold air, stretched upwards with the touch of the wind. London never slept; of this Nathan was quite certain. It was alive and pulsing and _breathing_ , every rise of the sun bleeding streaks of renewed life upon the city.

Nathan weaved his way through the thongs of Muggles, who were catching busses and rushing past ever-changing lights in a never-ceasing dance of flesh and intentions. Every Muggle, most of whom were wearing glum, early-morning looks, seemed so… _hurried_ to get to different places. Did they ever just kick back and relax?

Nathan scoffed. Merlin, he sounded like such a Pureblood, didn't he? Well, he was just that, after all – and wouldn't mother be ever so proud of that.

The hemline of his trousers was growing evermore wet and bleak as the puddles of water soaked them thoroughly. It was a good thing, however, an inconspicuously good thing.

Nathan Goodwill was a man of few distinguishable habits. His job demanded no less than total unpredictability – and a significant measure of flair for secrecy. Habits were the doomed root of predictability, which in turn paved the way to an early grave in his line of work. When you became initiated into the ranks of clandestineness in the outer gutter of the Ministry for Magic, you were forced to let go of any habit of your former life. Let go or they let go of you.

Which, in the case of Nathan, had meant spending half a life in Azkaban for high treason.

A burnt streak of crimson morning light bled through the cracks in the clouds, and the windows of the London Gherkin glinted like a thousands of lights in the distant horizon.

Nathan cast his eyes back to the café he had just departed from. Wishful. Longing.

There were, however, a couple of things that had been engraved so deeply into his being that even the Department couldn't burn it off his soul. A small Muggle café in the heart of London was one such thing. The place where he had met Alice, his wife, and the place where they had shared their first breakfast together. It was his place of comfort today. When he had time, he would eat breakfast undisturbed of all the wizarding problems, which, from one of the charming outdoor seats, seemed far away, like the troubles of another world entirely.

On other days, such as today, when the problems of wizards and _Harry_ were far too demanding of his attention, he would buy a cup of coffee and take it with him, strolling the familiar path to the Ministry, clearing his mind along the way.

He cherished the café, and the memories it stirred within his heart.

Harry would only see defeatism.

Good thing Harry didn't know, then.

Nathan sipped on his coffee – with _relish_. Needing it desperately in order to face Harry later – if he'd have the pleasure, of course.

Nathan hankered for a singular solution to Harry's rather _passionate_ nature. The death of the Death Eaters had disturbed the Norwegian Ministry badly, and in turn disturbed the British Ministry by the possible repercussions of the incident.

Dogs of war assembled on the British Isles. And the wizarding world flinched away from the rising madness. Only France, and the strong bonds forged long ago between the two nations, seemed to want anything to do with England.

Of course, this wasn't the first sighting of Death Eaters, and the Ministry would, no doubt, find a way to cover it up, or explain it away. They had grown quite apt in the art of self-deception over the years – ever since the Quidditch World Cup in Great Britain and the Death Eater attack back then.

But the damage had been done. And Harry wasn't doing himself any favours by his rash actions.

Nathan sighed, casting his eyes about the street. Everything was so… _mundane_. He liked it quite a lot – with the sort of envy of a man who _knew_ how fragile their carefreeness truly was.

After Harry's arrival, the Department had changed; Nathan had changed. Suddenly, they were all thrust into a war between wizards of such destructive powers that Nathan often felt scant and insignificant. Harry… Dumbledore… _Lord Voldemort_ … what was Nathan compared to those three – thrice damned eternally! What was anybody compared to them.

Harry had changed. Everything. Forever.

His mere presence created troubles – it tethered to him like memories to a human brain.

And then there was Harry himself… He had grown quite fond of the young man, with all his complexity and strengths and flaws. As a teenager, he had been a very engaging one. As a grown man, he had become a pain in the arse. Such was the dangers of single-mindedness.

Oh! And speak of the devil!

Soundless footfalls of predatory precision fell into step beside him, charmed silent even as they splattered through the puddles of snow and water. The hemline of the dark trousers was charmed to repel the smearing of water. Nathan had thought of doing that himself, but had ultimately decided against it; it would break the illusion of blending in with the Muggles around him.

Something that Harry didn't care for in the slightest, it seemed.

"Good morning, Harry," Nathan said, careful to hide the disapproval and _raving_ rage that had smote him the last couple of days whenever his thoughts turned to the younger man.

"Morning," Harry said briskly, a touch of wariness and hurriedness in his voice.

Nathan chanced a glance at the younger man's face; it was pulled taut in a bland mask of coldness, bright green eyes contemplating the people around him with never-ceasing movements. He had a shadow on his face, stubbles revealing tardiness.

He looked messy, worn, almost defeated.

"Still going to that café, I see." Harry chuckled quietly, without a shred of mirth. "You won't meet your wife there, Nathan. Perhaps your next, eh?"

Nathan's eyes widened, then narrowed with anger and suspicion as the words sunk in. "How the hell do you know that?"

"The same way I found out how you were recruited," Harry said, smirking slightly. "I had no idea you were such an unruly young man-"

"Shut up!" Nathan snarled. "Just… shut up."

For a wonder he did.

No Muggles around them reacted to Nathan's rather loud outburst, and he had a whispery thought that Harry had charmed them with a Muggle-Repelling Charm.

"Well, good morning, Nathan," Harry said sarcastically. "Wrong foot out of the bed this morning?"

" _Fuck_ that blasé attitude! You have any idea what you have done?" Nathan inquired quietly, in lieu of answering, allowing no emotion bleeding into his voice. "What you have set in motion?"

Harry, however, was staring at a figure across the street. Nathan, exaggerated, followed his eyes, and looked upon a decidedly Muggle character, wearing faded blue jeans, dark shirt, and a large, black wool coat, which was opened slightly at the top. Nathan saw nothing extraordinary about the man, and when he looked at Harry again, he had cast his eyes forward with a bored look.

"That man is a wizard," Harry said. Blinking-quick, he cast his eyes back again.

Nathan blinked, perplexed, and glanced back and beheld the man scrupulously; an invisible force, like a slap to the side of his head, snapped his head back ahead. Blinking his suddenly watery eyes against the unexpected burst of pain, Nathan caught sight of a dark wand going back up Harry's sleeve.

"Don't stare," Harry hissed from the corner of his mouth, bland countenance not changing a damn bit. "Besides, he doesn't know what to look for – don't give him an incentive to look after us."

Nathan, narrowing his eyes, gazed sharply at Harry again. Then quickly back at the ordinary man, so that Harry wouldn't catch his head again. The man in the black coat had just seen what he was looking for, it seemed, and crossed the road to a girl about his age. They embraced – quite like lovers were wont to do, Nathan thought – and he knew he must have been fooled.

"You know," Nathan said warily, as Harry grinned shamelessly. "You cannot delay the inevitable forever. Not even by trickery."

"Oh well," Harry said unconcernedly. "It was worth a cheap shot." He was silent for a short moment. "But seriously, you shouldn't stare – that's the easiest way to get caught. You taught me this, Nathan!"

"I never taught you to be a murderer!" Nathan whispered furiously. "I taught you better… to show – I don't know – some measure of control."

Harry scoffed. "Like you?"

"My past has nothing to do with you!"

A resigned smile slipped across Harry's lips. "Well, after what's happened, there isn't really a whole lot of legitimate ways for me to use those skills you taught me, now is there?"

Nathan's eyes bulged in sheer disbelief. Repulsion.

"Are you even listening to yourself anymore? Are you really trying to justify yourself, or just saying you cannot help it? You have _any_ idea what you have done?"

Harry held up his hand, fist closed. "Gave that one up a long time ago, shamelessly trying, cannot help it at all, obviously…" Harry ticked of the points of his answers with his fingers, frowning when it became apparent he was one answer short of a full hand. "And, well, I have some notion, but do purge me of my ignorance."

"The Ministry is in a disarray of rumours, Harry," Nathan said, and it was scarcely a breath away from a snarl of disgust. "The Auror Department is panicky, the Minster for Magic wants blood; he _demanded_ a meeting tomorrow. _Demanded_! Seems to think you might have something to do with it. Not exactly low-key, wouldn't you say? And then there is the matter of the Blood Wands…"

"The world is thrice damned, I know!" Harry said, interrupting Nathan. "And we are shambling behind! Dumbledore already briefed me. And it was only a couple– "

"Twenty-eight," said Nathan, anticipating Harry's blasé disregard.

"–of Death Eaters," Harry finished as if Nathan hadn't spoken, and allowed a tense silence to settle. "Not exactly people who possessed anything to contribute to our society, huh?"

"Some of those Death Eaters were held in very high regard in our society," Nathan said quietly.

"By Fudge," Harry said as if that should settle it.

"By our _Minister for Magic_ ," Nathan said, pronouncing the last three words with an unmistakable edge of aggravation. "Arguably the most powerful man in Britain."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, until Dumbledore decides to finally go along with my plan-"

"Nobody's gonna overrun the Ministry, Harry." Nathan sighed, glancing across the body of people round them with half an expectation that Dumbledore would manifest before them by the mere mention of his name. "Specially not you and Dumbledore."

"You don't think Dumbledore and I could do it?" Harry peered curiously at him, and Nathan had the chilly thought blazing through his head that Harry was seizing him up and down. "Is that a challenge? It sounded like a challenge to me."

Nathan snorted. Merlin! He could be so adolescent sometimes.

Sidestepping into an alleyway, Harry pulled him away from any wizardry eyes that might be lurking.

"I have no doubt, should the urge strike either of you, that you could tear down the Ministry alone," Nathan said honestly. "I'm just saying you are better than that." He paused, considering the man before him, and amended the statement, "Well, I hope so."

"It might be necessary someday." There wasn't a shred of doubt within Harry's whisper-thin voice. "It would be easy." Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Voldemort finds it easy."

Nathan shuddered, knowing the dark truth of Harry's words.

He was wet with the dried tears of snow, his sandy-blond hair mattered and falling in heavy bangs over his eyes, and he drew a hand through it, clearing his forehead.

Harry, on the other hand, was immaculate and untouched by the drizzle of snow. His short hair had been cut to angle forward, slightly shorter on the sides and rows of spiky hair jagged out across his forehead. Slightly messy and provocative. Not hiding his famous scar, which had become infamous as time and deceitful rumours sprouted a distorted picture of his character and his deeds.

Blinding-quick, Harry had his wand in his hand. Nathan barely had time to tense – such was his speed with a wand – before Harry had stored it again. A shake of his wand had yanked a spell of privacy around them, a light humming sound the only discernible sign of the spell.

Shaking his head, Nathan spent a silent moment contemplating Harry's cat-like precision in his movements. Scoffing ever so slightly, he knew it was better not to dwell too much upon it.

"I have to know I can trust you, Harry," Nathan said at last, as the humming sound settled slightly. "You had _orders_. _From me_. Orders not to engage the Death Eaters. Orders to report back every night. I trusted you. I defended you against Dumbledore. We have enough allies in the Auror Department so that you could have let them handle it, if need be – or you could have come back with them; they needn't know your identity."

"It would have fostered rumours," Harry replied, non-pulsed and immediate, like he had been expecting just this.

"It already has."

"Some of the Aurors – _most_ of them – would have died," Harry said, acrid truth and terrible indelicacy colouring his voice. "There was a dragon; it was bound to Voldemort's will, protected by black magic. They would have been in my way. This was cleaner."

"And the aftermath was messy as hell, Harry!" Nathan whispered furiously, though the part about the dragon had disturbed him horrendously. "I mean, for Merlin's sake, you're supposed to display some kind of judgement here!"

"I did."

"You tore them asunder! We wanted them questioned! Not killed!"

"There was a dragon!" Harry snarled softly. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Exercise self-control!"

"You weren't there."

"Think!"

"You weren't there."

"Just think, Harry, before acting with your overly developed trigger-finger! I mean, we taught you _non-_ lethal skills, too, didn't we?"

Harry breathed slowly, closing his eyes.

"I thought twenty-eight Death Eaters less in the world might be a good thing." He shrugged. Like it meant nothing. Worst of all, to Harry it probably meant nothing.

"They are already replaced, I assure you." Nathan replied, scornful and disgusted. He breathed out steadily, making an effort to cool himself. "What do you want? I assume you sought me out for something?"

"Can't just meet up with an old friend, can I?" Harry said, grinning roguishly, outwardly dismissing the threat of Nathan's rage with ease.

And yet, it seemed like there was something in his bland countenance. Something amiss. Something that didn't belong there. He hesitated, which made Nathan blink; Harry never hesitated.

"How is your knowledge of the Fidelius Charm?" Harry said suddenly, voice raw and coarse with an unidentifiable emotion.

Nathan blinked at the sudden change of atmosphere in Harry. Suddenly, there was a terrible _need_.

"Versatile," he answered. "I suppose. Though I imagine Dumbledore to be more knowledgeable in this particular area of magic." His lips twitched, annoyed. "All right, every field of magic. Don't tell him I said that. I wouldn't hear the end of it."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Something nagged at the peripheral base of his consciousness. "Why come to me with this at all? Surely, Dumbledore would be better suited for this sort of thing?"

Harry nodded darkly. "I know – he won't help me. I think." He started bouncing lightly back and forth on the ball of his feet, not bothering to hide his unease. "I need to breach a Fidelius Charm and gain access to a target without 'em knowing I've breached it… and not knowing the secret location beforehand, I suppose," Harry said hurriedly, almost stumbling on his words.

"And the target?" Nathan queried patiently, with mild curiosity; he had a feeling he knew who it was. This was not what he had imagined, and he didn't like it at all.

"Someone who will never share the secret with me," Harry said, smiling slightly.

Lucius Malfoy, then. No. He didn't like this at all.

"Now," Harry continued, ignoring the look on Nathan's face, for he must have seen it, "before you bother telling me it's impossible…"

"Oh no," Nathan interrupted, a ghost of smile flickering onto his face, for this was just so like Harry. "It's perfectly possible, it's just bloody difficult."

Harry started. He looked somewhat confused, blinking in a surprised vacancy. "Well… that's not a no, then."

Nathan, intrigued despite his deep-seated wariness, cast his eyes onto Harry's green ones. "Why do you ask? I don't think attacking Lucius Malfoy is the best course of action right-"

"I need to save a girl."

Nathan blinked; this day just got stranger and stranger. "Malfoy's got a girl? Draco? I thought he had a boy."

Harry smirked. "Draco is a boy, yes."

"You know what I meant."

"Not Malfoy," Harry said with a shake of his head, smiles gone and impatience touching his eyes. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

Ah. Understanding flittered through Nathan, accompanied swiftly with dread. This didn't bore well. Save her – bleeding hell. Where would he even start? Discouragement, mayhap?

"Ah, Harry, I know of the rumours, but are you sure of their realness in this ma-"

"Rodolphus Lestrange seemed pretty fucking sure of his daughter's realness," Harry interrupted, and there was no mistaking his fraying patience now. "Although, I suppose he was undoubtedly bat-shit insane. Really, it's a toss-up either way."

"Harry, this is a fool's quest. We should focus on Voldemort's next move."

"Dumbledore's already doing that, though," Harry said. "For now, there's nothing I can do about Voldemort – I can do something here." He leaned closer to Nathan, and the older man had to restrain himself from flinching away. Really, Harry could be quite scary. "Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix's husband, begged me to save his daughter. Help me save her, Nathan. Please."

"What if she's beyond saving?" The question was obvious, but Nathan doubted Harry even considered it. Memories held him prisoner in his own conviction.

"Well, we won't know that until we try, now will we? When was the last time we did something truly, utterly right? Something you just do because it's the right thing to do, not because it makes bloody sense?"

Nathan couldn't remember that, for you didn't do those kinds of things in their line of work. In war. Such an ugly thing didn't allow for such pure intentions to go unpunished; it didn't allow for bright-eyed idealists with strong virtues to thrive and conquer. Yet there was something empowering about the prospect of saving an innocent, little girl.

"How old is she, then?"

"How the fuck would I know?" Harry said. "Four, maybe five, I reckon."

"Okay," Nathan said at last, nodding with the resigned emotions of his heart bleeding through his voice.

"Look, it's doable, but, Harry," he whispered, quiet and dubious, "you cannot overcome a Fidelius Charm – not in the magical sense, at least. The secret ceases to exist the moment the charm is erected. It is yanked out of existence, taken out of the minds of those who once knew, but was forced to forget… and then stored in the confinements of a single soul… it's a very subtle art…"

"I already know all that! I need a way _past_ it. I thought you said it was bloody difficult but doable," Harry said, narrowing his eyes and tapping his wand against his knuckles. Angry red wisps of light emanated from the tip, likely mirroring its master's emotions. "Are you saying I have to force the secret keeper to spill his guts?"

"No!" Nathan said forcefully. He felt a tang of dread rising through his spine; at that moment, Harry seemed more than willing to spill Malfoy's guts. "No, Harry. A coerced truth is an untruthful truth. Like the whitest of lies – it will buzz in your head, it will grow to an idea that can define your crusade. _Mislead_ you."

"Are you being intentionally vague?"

"Are you being intentionally _vacant_?" Nathan sighed, pinching his nose. "You cannot force the truth out of them; not when concerning the Fidelius Charm – the magic won't _take_."

"So that's it, then?"

"Of course not. Otherwise I'd be wasting my fucking time right now."

Nathan slurped his coffee to deliberately buy himself some moments of thought. Noting Harry's stoic countenance, which held only the barest glimmers of a rising wrath, Nathan contemplated telling him to piss off.

No. That wouldn't do him any good. Antagonizing Harry, while a most pleasant experience in itself, would only lead to damnation.

"I didn't lie. There is a way," Nathan said. "Well, Lucius Malfoy hasn't shown himself in public the last three weeks, yeah. Only once coming out to ask permission to erect the Fidelius Charm, and then gone again."

"Dumbledore told me. My fault, I know." Harry's eyes, malefic and bright, bore into Nathan's average, boring blue eyes with a subtle urgency. "Go on."

Nathan sighed exasperated. "Honestly, do you ever read?"

Harry tensed up like he had seen a ghost, his whole body and countenance becoming unyielding and terrible in its dark, unspoken promises of agony, but when he answered, he was calm. Deadly calm.

"Not if I can help it," he whispered, pronouncing each word with deliberate care, and a small smile of sadness touched his eyes, leaving an edge of humanity in their green depths. "Tell me what I should have read."

"You should have read the guideline you received when you were initiated. Really, explains a lot, you should do it. Anyway." He shook his head, exhaling air. "Well, an Fidelius Charm, when erected legally, must be done so with the consent of the Ministry. Which means that the Ministry must be aware of the secret."

"Defeats the purpose of the charm, doesn't it?" said Harry with a frown.

"Which would be why most use it illegally, like Dumbledore's Order of Phoenix," said Nathan. "But Malfoy, according to Dumbledore's sources in the Auror Department, met with Fudge to request permission. He went the legal route, probably because he saw no reason not to. Most likely a note with the secret will lie around somewhere in the Aurors Archive."

Harry nodded, catching on. "A note – for me to steal, yeah?" He fell silent for a moment, eyes distant and calculating. A smile wandered about on the edges of his lips. "I need a way in, although this just might work."

"I know a couple of Aurors who can help you," Nathan said hurriedly – though there was a slight apprehension in his voice that he couldn't mask entirely. "Most of them – if not _all_ of them – are loyal to Dumbledore, though, and you do not want to attract his attention in this, do you? I think I can work around it… yeah, with speedy actions and wrought around a tight schedule we can just might manage to slide it under his nose unseen."

Harry nodded. "Okay. Have the Auror ready to meet me tomorrow in the atrium. When do you meeting with Fudge end?"

* * *

Memories burn eternally. Remember that. Embarking on the voyage of madness, one will find that the nagging screams through the synapses of your body are fuelled – _born_ , really – by the unforgiving clutches of memory.

Memories burn eternally.

 _"See, Harry! That's Hermione! Oh…" A mad laugh caught the edge of a sob on Ron's bloodied lips. "What do you think she's doing lying there?" A morbidly tone of scandalized disbelief entered his voice. "Is she_ naked _?"_

 _She was half-naked. Her shirt was torn open, and her small, adolescent breasts, shredded and lacerated, spilled to either side of her torso like punctured balloons, making a mess of bloody pus and splattered intestines._

 _Harry gagged – a vitriol of acrid agony bulging in the back of his throat. Emotions too vast to contain threatened to leave him soulless, scared and scarred for eternity._

 _Ron nudged her prone and torn corpse – still fiery-hot with ebbing coals of life – with his shoe, which came back smeared in crimson blood and thick innards. His face was caught between a misshapen vortex of emotions, laughing with tears of distress. "Is she playing games? Is that_ blood _, Harry?"_

 _Harry, not daring to truly look at Hermione again, lest the sadness would overcome him, glanced down the dark corridor of the Department of Mysteries, seeking Rodolphus Lestrange. She had been fighting him moments ago. He had heard her scream his name, as if yelling for help – and Harry had been too bloody late._

 _A blazing scream of madness unbound and quarrels ascending reverberated off the walls of his own emptiness… And through the darkness, distant voices whispered – with the hissing voices of snakes – that he had doomed them all._

 _"Hermione? Hermione, get up. Hermione!"_

 _The rising despair within Ron's voice spurred Harry onwards, terrible courage seizing him, and he knew he had to find the others – were they still alive, of course – and get them out of here. This was all his fault._

 _This was all his damn fault._

 _A black door rose before his eyes, rising from a void in the floor, and Harry, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, seized the silver handle and opened it, stepping across the threshold._

 _He came face-to-face with Ron anew. Anguished and defeated, he quivered with obvious guilt._

 _"Who did it?" he snarled, stepping forth. Yet the fight was leaving his rigid body. Tears, which had long since dried, reddened his eyes. "Tell me! Which spell killed Ginny? Mine or theirs?"_

 _"I dunno," Harry answered at once, the lie coming forth easily._

 _"You were there, dammit, Harry! You must have seen it! You must…"_

 _The corridors of Hogwarts, once a place of love and comfort for them, seemed oppressive and demanding of dark justice, and held nothing but horror etched on its every stone. The horror of memory thrice damned, like a creature of the night better left forgotten._

 _"I… I do not know," Harry said at last, for what else could he say. When the truth was as terribly corruptive… everything else was preferable._

 _"You're lying!" Ron screamed. "You are lying! I need to know, Harry! Did I kill my sister? I laughed when I stood before the corpse of my best friend! I – did I kill her, Harry? I need to know. I need to know. I must know. Tell me!"_

 _"Let it go, Ron. Please, just… let it go."_

 _"HOW COULD I?" he screamed, tears trickling freely down his freckled cheeks once more. He looked impossibly bright and white, like a ghost, ethereal in his grief._

 _"It was the brains, Ron," Harry said – something was amiss. Everything was wrong._

 _"No… It was me! I could –_ feel… _myself."_

 _"It was the brains," Harry whispered. Oh, how he whispered_ – _cruel words never meant to be spoken. He knew the cruelty in the hearts of men. It would stare back from every mirror from then onwards. Distorted and awry. Wrong. Everything wrong. "It was all the brains…"_

Harry snapped to into the guilt of awareness, opening his eyes blearily, a motherfucker of all headaches battering away with piston-like efficiency in his skull. He was going mad, surely! Nauseous lances of dread clamoured to seize his heart and yank it to misery.

He tumbled over the side of his bed and hit the floor, a jolt of acrid agony splitting his resolve to atoms. Crashing to his hands and knees, smote with quivers unceasingly, he managed a rough laugh.

"Memory's a fuckin' bitch!" he groaned with the eloquence of the damned.

A thick liquid trickled from the edge of his mouth, and Harry spat blood onto the carpet of his bedroom floor, retching hoarsely.

Raucous laughter of the insane and the forsaken rang in his head like scornful echoes slowly ebbing away to nothingness, a trait of his continuing existence.

"Move!" he snarled softly, trying to force his limbs to move. No dice. His lungs burned fiercely, and fear of the unbound memories shrilled like blinking-quick whiplashes through him. A tang of chopper clung to the back of his throat, choking him; he had bitten down on his tongue in his sleep again.

He forced himself onto his knees, using his bed to pull himself up, but his feet couldn't find strength and he fell forward again, landing hard as his hands failed to catch him this time.

Lying on his floor, the side of his face smacked into the carpet, he blew a splatter of blood across the floor like a thin red line, and a broken laugh forced itself between gritted teethes.

Walking wasn't gonna happen, then, he reasoned, and started crawling towards the bathroom promptly. Not one too prideful to get the job done any way he could, and wasn't there a desperate sense of entitlement to be had in that.

The door opened as he approached, seemingly by its own power, and Harry crawled into the bathroom, using the sink to pull himself up; his legs wouldn't carry him, so he leaned over it, hanging onto it as if life itself depended upon it. Exhaling, he let the water flow out of the gleaming faucet, drinking greedily and unceremoniously.

The water gave him strength, rinsed his throat; and after a few seconds spent gulping down water, he splattered his face with the cool liquid.

" _Shit_ …" The whispered word stretched into the silence. His mind felt drained, vacant, vague shapes of shadowy creatures siphoned into existence all around him, yet only found and beheld by his eyes. A mirage of his nightmare. "Fucking hell…"

Turning off the water, hanging onto the sink a moment longer to gather his strength, he raised his head and caught sight of the mirror.

Harry looked, froze, uttered his first scream of terror in his adult life, stumbled back, and fell onto his fucking ass. Voldemort's gleaming red eyes, pupils vertical and snake-like, mocked him from the other side of the mirror, as he beheld Harry descending to the floor. He titled his head, regarding Harry as a small child would something utterly peculiar.

 _Do you even dream anymore, Harry? Or do you only remember?_

Harry raised his wand at Voldemort steadily despite the racing of his heart – scarcely comprehending how it even wound up in his hand – and the mirror shattered into a thousand pierces as pale, cursed light struck it.

It rained with the shards of pointy, crystal-like remnants of the mirror, and a hole of blackness was revealed in the wall. For now, Harry paid it no mind; he was still screaming bloody murder.

There was a series of hurried, piston-like knocks on his door, accompanied with frantic, somewhat muffled yells, as the voices had to travel through several doors and walls.

Harry snapped out of his dazed lapse of sanity, stopping his frightful screams of horror to listen.

"Harry! Harry, you all right in there?" His neighbour, John, a muggle, was on the cusp of knocking his door down by the sound of it. "Harry! I heard you screaming! Do I need to come in?" he asked, though he sounded like he very much wanted to avoid that.

"No," Harry whispered. He mustn't see! He raised his voice to a heavy shout, "No! I'm fine!"

"Okay," John said, all too ready to leave him be; he always thought Harry a little strange. "Knock if you need me."

"Will do!"

Harry closed his eyes and sighed, breathing in, breathing out. Breathe. Fuck. He held his wand aloft.

 _Reparo!_

The splinters of the mirror sprung up as if Harry had forced them to life. Mending measuredly as he rose to his feet again, Harry slowly beheld himself, bit by bit, as the mirror fixed itself with the force of his magic. When it was done, the face of Harry Potter greeted his eyes. Voldemort was gone.

Sighing, he tapped the mirror with his wand and it jumped aside, revealing a deep black hole in the wall and a long steel grid containing numerous of different Potions. Harry pulled it out like you would a drawer; pulling, pulling, and pulling, it stretched until it almost touched the wall on the other side, until he found the Potion he needed. The Polyjuice Potion. His alias.

He weighted it in his hand. Only one batch left. He'd need to get some more somewhere. Brewing it himself was out of the question; and though it was faster this way, it was still mildly embarrassing that the Potion Hermione brewed effortlessly in her Second Year, he still found outside the realm of his capabilities. No worries. He had never been very good at Potion.

Hermione… Ron…

Ten years after their deaths, Harry could honestly say he had his sense of grief under control. But when the memories overcame his nightmares like tonight, it reopened old wounds. Made them raw. Made them _eternal_.

He shook his head; Nathan had a meeting in a couple of hours, and he needed to be ready for when he came out.

Hopefully he had come through with the Auror.

* * *

"Who exactly is your asset? Did he go to Hogwarts, or one of the lesser schools? He's British, I assume."

"Confidential, Minister. As you know."

Cornelius Fudge leaned back in his seat, and waggled his wand like one would a finger.

"You know, I don't like it," He said and paused, then smiled all too benignly, like a damn cat. "Well, indeed, I suppose that for the purpose of our discussion, yes, it does not matter," he said decisively, as if he alone decided that he needn't know of Harry's identity.

Nathan regarded the Minister for Magic before him. He didn't share the depth of Harry's hatred for Fudge. Certainly, he didn't like the man. But at times he seemed almost… _harmless_. He was just a fat, pompous man of fickle mind.

But then the real monster emerged, of course, revealing a power born out of sheer believe.

Fudge believed himself to be righteous. And that self-righteousness, the sheer believe in his own fallacy, it compelled his capacity for illusion, compelled him to make all the wrong decisions with all the wrong intentions. Ambitions gone awry; the inability, as Dumbledore was wont to say, to see beyond the scope and power of his own office.

Nathan feared that believe; hell, even Dumbledore feared it. Or respected the nature of its madness, at least.

"Is your wizard making progress, then, Unspeakable Goodwill?" Fudge said, a touch impatiently, running a hefty finger over his grey eyebrow. "I want Potter found."

Nathan shrugged, well aware of the paradoxical twist of fate. It was quite humorous, really. Special Unspeakable Harry Potter, known only by Nathan and Albus, ordered by the Minister for Magic to hunt and slay the deranged Harry Potter, the aptly Ministry-named Undesirable No. 1.

Fudge probably wouldn't see any amusement in that, should he ever find out.

"As progress goes, not so much. He is proving rather illusive, Minister," Nathan said at last, none of his amusing thoughts colouring his professional tone.

"I want him found, Unspeakable," Fudge repeated, and an ugly red colour ascended his flabby cheeks, high spots of olden rage. "Harry Potter has been a torn in the eye of this Ministry for too long! I want him found, you hear me? After Lucius statement in the _Prophet_ … what was the man thinking? Has he become _deranged_? He's putting us on the spot, that's what he is!"

Nathan chose to remain silent. In silence, after all, no secrets could ever see the light of day.

Fudge peered at Nathan, almost contemptuously. "With what means have you tracked him so far? Surely, a man of your reputation and intellect must have gathered something? To say none of your asset's former accomplishments! Potter was barely done with his O.W.L's when he disappeared! He should pose no threat! He has no education! He's _nothing_!"

"Well, there have been rumours surrounding Potter – even before he went missing. What we are dealing with is hardly an ordinary individual."

" _Lies_!" Fudge snarled vehemently, snapping to his feet and towering over his desk, eyes ferocious and hands flat on his desk; Nathan kept his face carefully guarded of all emotions, staring expectantly at Fudge. He could deal with wrath, quite easily, in fact. "It is nothing but lies, Nathan Goodwill. Heed my warning!"

Nathan nodded amicably. "If you say so, Minister." Then he said nothing at all, and the silence stretched. Fudge was treading a careful line, it seemed; the strain of his office, and the lies he had to convince not only the world, but himself, as well, were taking its toll upon the elderly wizard.

In the silence, Nathan marvelled on the foresight Albus Dumbledore possessed. Harry's reputation, which had enthralled Fudge, had all been a scam conjured and masterminded by the ancient Headmaster.

Harry had been credited with a number of dark wizards arrests – and kills – over the years. None of the deeds, however, were actually performed by him, but rather by Aurors loyal to Dumbledore. Careful paperwork, and lack thereof sometimes, had fooled the Ministry – not only making Harry appear older than he really was, for surely a man of such accomplishments was old and experienced, but also made him seem more active than he really had been.

Harry only really became active within the last couple of months, after all.

Fudge regarded Nathan with a tilted head, eyes cruelly calculative all of a sudden.

"What's your story?" he asked. "What made you an Unspeakable?"

Nathan smirked. "Confidential, Minister. As you know."

"You speak so very carefully, Goodwill. Like you are so afraid – or _broken_ – that you don't even trust yourself with your words anymore." Fudge smiled maliciously, leaning over his desk. "The secrets… they pile onto each other, don't they? Pile and pile and pile… until one day you catch yourself unable to discern which from which… You and I, Unspeakable, we are kindred spirits, choosing our words with care, for the slightest slip… Why, the slightest slip might reveal to the world how truly fickle peace really is."

Nathan blinked. And suddenly there was rage rising white-hot and raw in his throat, threatening to spill words that could never be taken back again. He dared! He… He bit back the crude retort, and analysed the words quickly. Was there a confession of guilt somewhere in there? No, surely not. A threat? An admission of knowledge? If so, then it was mighty subtle, which only made it all the more dangerous.

"You… care for peace, do you?"

"Of course! In mad times such as these, stability is irreplaceable." Fudge nodded slowly, offering what Nathan thought was a condescending smile.

"Find Harry Potter," he said, and the smile slipped off his face. "Peace won't be accomplished as long as he continues to wreak havoc."

And that Nathan could agree wholeheartedly with.

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** Not mine. Any of it. Obviously.

 **jon02:** Thank you. I'll try.

Thank you to all who read this far. Have a nice weekend. And that's all I have to say about that, I guess. Some typos and general mistakes have been changed in the last three chapters - those I could find, at least. Nothing that changes the story in any way, but just a heads-up. Oh, and if you can be bothered, leave a review on your way out. I'm not gonna lie, it won't make me write faster, but it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Yeah... Good weekend from me.


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